THE BLOODED ONE

James County, Virginia

October 2012

“Stupid freakin’ barn,” she muttered. There really was no good reason for her to be out in the old barn this late, but she would lose what was left of her composure if she sat in the empty house any longer. She could hear grandpa as if he stood there beside her, his accent slurring his words together as it did when he was angry.

“Maggie-mae, yer head is full of bricks, I swear it, girl!”

Although she wanted to smile at the thought, she could not. It was still too fresh, too raw. Her lips twisted downward, and she shook off the flash of anger that surged as she thrust her fists into her front jean pockets and took a swipe at a tuft of loose straw with her boot.

Death sucked; there was nothing much more to say about it. No one to blame, no way for her to fight the advance of time. The Reaper claimed him, and there was not a blessed thing she could do about it.

Making things right around the farm? Well, there was a problem she could manage, and she had two good hands and two strong legs to work with. At least it was something.

Sunset dipped away beyond the horizon and the crimson orange sky streaked with that glowing time of peace before nightfall, her anger seeming like an intrusion into the cycle of nature. The wind kicked up, fluttering the edges of her red parka so she zipped it fully closed, putting off the luxury of mourning when there was so much work to do. She heard the roar of the waterfall beyond the meadow, the riverbanks swollen to overflowing from the recent storm. It left the ground saturated, like an overused sponge.

Her hood fell back off of her head with the next gust of wind and the rain soaked her long hair as she walked through the courtyard back to the barn, the damp earth squishing beneath her boots.

The old dairy barn loomed first on her to-do list. Over one hundred years old, the field stone foundation stood crumbling in some spots, in dire need of reinforcement. Maggie was determined to ready it for the upcoming construction work by doing some of the labor herself, so she worked to clear the debris most of the afternoon. It was a solitary task, one that kept her occupied until early evening, but she was pleased with her efforts and glad for the distraction. It would be quite useful as a private foaling box when it was finally finished, far enough from the main horse barn to provide a birthing sanctuary for the broodmares.

She shook the stiff work gloves off of her soiled hands and threw them onto the bale of musty straw at her feet. The muscles in her shoulders ached and her legs cramped at the effort, yet she bent to tighten the laces on her sodden work boots anyway. She rested one hand against the cold stone wall to balance herself, but as she straightened up she noticed a handful of loose rocks cluttering the ground. She considered ignoring the debris, then felt foolish after she worked so hard all day. What difference would it make if she spent a few more minutes picking up rocks? She had nothing else to do anyway.

“Move yer lazy ass!” she berated herself. A laugh escaped her lips at the thought of how silly it was to be talking to no one in an empty barn, and she promptly bent to the task. She grasped the hem of her parka upward until it pouched, then tossed a few of the smaller stones into her makeshift bucket. As she reached out closer to the wall to chase a stone poking out beneath the scattered straw, something sharp jabbed her fingers and she drew back at the flash of pain.

“Damn it!” she muttered. She jerked her arm away and sat back on her heels, grasping her throbbing fingers with her other hand and trying to contain the rocks in her parka with her elbow. A trickle of bright red blood dripped from two torn digits, both sliced clean across the fingertips. She instinctively raised them to her lips and stuck them in her mouth and her rock collection tumbled to the floor. It was a disgusting habit and probably not very sanitary, but it was the only thing to do at the time.

To her dismay, her questionable method did little to stem the bleeding. She swore a few words under her breath and kicked her boot across the straw to find the source of her injury. It would likely turn out to be a rusted nail or piece of metal, and she scowled when she realized her tetanus shot was most likely overdue.

“What addles yer brain, Maggie? I told you I would clear the barn!”

Fingers still clenched around her bleeding hand, she glanced up to see Marcus striding toward the barn. Twenty years her senior and adamant about a promise to her grandfather to watch over her, he took his oath seriously, watching for a chance to swoop in and honor his duty. His hulking shoulders braced against the rain, the moisture dappling his unruly swatch of black hair and dripping into rivulets down his tight jaw. She could see his thick brows furrow over the slit of his blue eyes as he approached, stomping through the mud and apparently oblivious to the slush he sent flying in his wake.

“Me brain is just fine, Marcus,” she teased, mimicking his thick accent. His lips thinned in a gesture of annoyance she was quite accustomed to, but his eyes softened as she rolled her eyes upward and gave him a half-hearted grin. She held up her damaged digits for his inspection. The wound to her fingers continued to pulse, obviously in need of a few stitches. “It’s my fingers that are the problem.”

“Funny girl,” he grumbled as he inspected her hand. “What on Earth! Did you need to work yerself bloody? Couldn’t just listen to me for once and stay in the house, you red-headed hellion!” he snapped.

“I couldn’t stay in there anymore, Marcus. Everything reminds me of him. I needed to be busy.”

He blotted her bleeding hand with the edge of his flannel shirt, but raised his gaze to hers at her response. The annoyance in his face faded as she scrunched her nose and tried to shake off the glimmer of wetness threatening to spill from her eyes.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” he grunted, dropping her hand and pulling her into a hug. “I didn’t mean to shout at you. Your granddad would kick my arse for losing my temper.”

“I can kick your ass on my own,” she replied, leaning her head against his shoulder for a moment. His chest rumbled and his arms tightened around her as he chuckled, and she could not resist a poorly aimed punch to his kidney to lighten the mood.

“Maybe, my wee terror, maybe,” he agreed. With one calloused hand, he smoothed her damp hair from her forehead and looked into her face. “I miss him, too, you know, very much.” His voice cracked with the confession, and Maggie flinched at the uncommon display of emotion. Marcus had always been her constant, a steady guide throughout any crisis. The oldest friend of her grandfather and the closest thing to family she had, the solemn giant was all that was left to keep her grounded to a life that seemed more like a distant dream.

“Yeah, well, there’s still work to do,” she mumbled. Mourning their common loss wouldn’t help get the work finished, and it was thoughts of missing her grandfather that she had been trying to ignore by working in the barn. She stepped away from him and wiped her hand on the leg of her denim jeans, avoiding his gaze to avert any more shared grief.

“Yeah, there is, but you need a few stitches first. The mess will still be here on the morrow, I promise to leave it for you, but yer done for tonight. I’ll bring the truck around and we’ll go to the clinic. Wait here out of the rain.”

She said nothing but nodded, acquiescence easier when it remained unspoken. His mouth tightened and he shook his head as he walked away, muttering under his breath. Maggie turned back to the pile of debris and bent to clear it before he returned.

She did not locate the source of her injury, but she gathered the last few rocks. She picked one up and meant to toss it in her makeshift pouch, but it felt warm as if it had laid in the sun all day and she paused to look closer at it. It was oval shaped and smooth against her palm, and in the glare from the single light bulb hanging above her head, it gleamed a dark green color, nearly black. Her hand throbbed again, but this time it was from the spreading warmth in her palm beneath the stone. She leaned one hand against the wall to steady herself as she looked closer at it and noticed there was a vein of crimson running through the center. Was it some sort of red quartz, or had she stained the stone with her own blood?

Bile suddenly rose in her throat and she choked back a wave of nausea. Shaking her head in disgust of her own weakness, she supposed the chore could wait until the morning and she could surely use the rest. She clutched the smooth rock in her bloody palm and pushed off the wall with her good hand to stand. Her vision abruptly exploded in a halo of darkness.

“Whoa,” she said, reaching for the wall and missing. Tiny bursts of stars filled the blackness, and she grabbed for the wall again without success. Was she going to pass out? She thought it might be best to sit down, but control of her traitorous body was lost. Her legs buckled and collapsed in a useless heap as the rest of her flaccid body followed.

“Maggie? Maggie!”

She heard the echo of his voice but could not respond, unable to push the words from her throat with the pressure of the darkness engulfing her. An urge to lie down on the ground pulled her closer to the floor, as if she could melt through the dirt and join somehow with some primal force to stop the maddening spin of her senses.

She felt a burning in her palm as the strange pulling sensation increased, reminding her of that time as a child when she waded too far out in the ocean and the current became too strong. The riptide sucked her out, persistent at first, but quickly changed into a demanding dredge that pulled her further and further from shore. Her first impulse was to fight the pull, but as it began to rise the pressure was too great, the only thing left to do was to submit and let it carry her away. Marcus was her savior that day, but in the barn, no one could help her. As the power surged from the stinging in her hand, the tide heaved her down to the earth where she thought if she could only press her cheek to the damp ground, the urge might be relieved.

A sliver of fear washed through her blood as her vision began to change, the dark haze overcome by a growing ember of light. Bright, it was so bright! Her shoulder gave way and she let her head follow, eager to make the pressure stop but perplexed that the light now surged stronger, blinding her, with each inch she pressed closer to the earth. Numbness throbbed in every muscle, coursed throughout her limbs, and churned in a heap in her belly. It proceeded to drop down deep through her gut, and she thought she surely would vomit. She opened her eyes.

Only a shimmering sunset greeted her confusion, a sunset that seemed to grow larger and larger until it engulfed her. At last, when she thought she would burn because she could not tolerate the heat anymore, she dug her face into the cold mud and closed her eyes to the madness.

Something tasted gritty and damp when she tried to moisten her cracked lips. She figured she must have slept like a rock if she was waking up with a cottonmouth, but when she tried to swallow all she could taste was dirt. Maggie sighed and rolled over, and when she opened her eyes, nothing made sense at all.

The palms of her hands were caked with wet earth when she pushed herself into a sitting position.

“What the hell?” she groaned. She blinked a few times in an effort to clear the sleep from her eyes, and when her gaze finally sharpened, she was dismayed to find she truly was sitting on the ground. It also appeared she had rolled around in the dirt, because as she extended her arms away from her body she could see the mud slathered on her skin.

A crescent moon was shining overhead illuminating the evergreens in a silver glimmer, the sounds of a busy forest smothering her senses. She was sitting in a patch of damp earth in the middle of the woods. Her fingers dug into the ground as the heady scent of evergreen needles fell upon her, and she could still taste the bitter blood residue in her mouth from her wound.

Ok, she knew what was going on. She must be dreaming. It was the only explanation. Time to wake up! She closed her eyes again, knowing when she opened them she would be safe in her own bed, snug and cozy like she was supposed to be. Not sitting on her ass in the middle of the night in a forest.

She gave it a go. Eyes closed, she counted backward in a methodical manner from ten to one. Yup, that should do the trick!

Oh, good Lord Jesus!

It did not do the trick. She remained there on her wet backside, just as before. Unease nagged her consciousness, turning into a rising howl as she glanced down at her hand covered with dirt and her own dried blood. Before she could make another attempt to wake from her curious dream, she heard the snapping of branches and could see the brush ahead separating. Something was making its way through the undergrowth, pointed in her direction.

Maggie had never seen a bear before in real life, so it was a bit of a shock to see how immense the creature looked in her dream. Ah, okay! If she was trapped like a dirty little pig in an insufferable dream, she might as well get to see a bear up close! She smiled at her predicament and hoped she would remember it when she woke up.

Walking on all fours, the massive bear was a solid chunk of dense brown fur. He lumbered toward her in a lazy swagger, his enormous head swinging back and forth. The creature’s head stopped abruptly when his deep brown eyes swung her way and his weight shifted somewhat backward on his haunches, although he did not actually sit down.

Maggie stuck her dirty palm up and waved, as if the bear was sitting behind a fence at the zoo.

“Hey…bear,” she whispered. It seemed odd that she could feel the dampness through her denim jeans as she rolled forward onto her knees. She was fine with ignoring that bit of information, much more focused on getting close to the animal in her dream. As she reached for him, the beast opened its mouth and uttered a snarl, and she scrunched her nose. Rancid breath, indeed!

The beast rose upward on his hind legs, still roaring his displeasure, his front limbs extended outward so close to her head she could see the round pink pads on the underside of his paws. She pushed off with her feet and scrambled backward on her bottom, then turned over to crawl away faster. Dream or no dream, she did not want to be eaten by a wild animal.

Didn’t someone once say if you died in a dream, you died in real life?

She was not willing to test the theory. She was still considering that idea when she felt the blow to her right shoulder followed by a searing pain as she was slammed flat to the ground, evacuating the air from her lungs in one painful rush. Her mouth again tasted like dirt as she struggled to gasp for air.

“Ikali-a!” A shrill voice whooped from very near her face. Maggie could not see with her cheek pressed down into the ground, but she felt the air above her swoosh and the weight of the massive paw was suddenly gone from her back. The bear sounded angrier at the intrusion, his roaring mingled with the sharp rapid cries coming from what sounded like a man. Maggie pulled at the ground with her broken fingernails and struggled to breathe but her crushed ribs refused to expand. She managed to curl into a half sitting position and backed away from the melee at her feet. Her shoulder screamed in protest with every move and a steady trickle of blood trickled down the front of her parka.

The scene in front of her was very much like a movie. The brown bear stood on his hind legs, his front paws extended outward, looking as if he was about to give the man standing in front of him a hug. Except that the bear was truly, really, there in front of her. Moreover, crouched between her and the bear was a tan-skinned man, lithe and quick on his toes, wielding what looked like a rather small knife in consideration of the size of his opponent.

“Ikali-a nusheaxkw!” the man roared, as if in challenge to the beast.

The stranger danced away from a swipe by the bear, eliciting another frustrated bellow from the beast. Maggie could see the muscles of his legs flex through the leather leggings he wore, and there were colored beads attached to a belt at his waist that bounced when he jumped. She had not gained enough breath back in her lungs yet to scream, but if she had, she would have been screaming by now from the absurdity of it all.

The bear aimed another seeming half-hearted swipe at the man, and then gave his massive head a shake as he dropped back down on all fours. The man remained crouched between her and the beast, his fist extended with the knife pointing at it, the veins on his muscled arms standing out like cords against his skin. With one last series of groans and roars, the animal tossed his head and then abruptly swung his shoulder around. The beast lumbered back the way it came through the underbrush. It appeared to have lost interest in the fight.

The man watched the bear retreat. When he was satisfied the animal was gone, the stranger turned to Maggie. She could see beads of sweat sliding down off his brow along his black hair. There was a thin braid down the left side of his face where his hair laid flat just past his bare brown shoulders, but she was perplexed to notice the right side of his head was shaved clean in a crescent shape from temple to nape. She could see the bone-handled knife he still clutched in his hand as he glared at her. His hands were fisted at his sides and his chest heaved with the effort of slowing down his breathing. Maggie was too stunned to speak, but even just staring at him in return of his sharpened gaze was too much. She felt her head spinning as if she would vomit, but the last thing she wanted to do was throw up in front of the stranger, so she leaned forward and put her head in her hands.

“Keptchat!”

She heard the utterance that sounded like a curse, and felt his presence when he kneeled down beside her. Her limbs felt like rubber and she felt she was going to lose her head to a moment of panic. None of it made any sense. The warm hands that settled on her upper arms sent a shock through her bones, and the man holding her was most certainly not a dream.

Everything that had just happened was real.

The man muttered words she did not understand, as if talking to himself in another language. Maggie felt fingers grasp her chin and then the wet rim of some sort of container of water as he pressed it to her lips. She took a few sips and then shook her head to show him she had enough.

“Aptamehele,” he muttered.

He sat back on his haunches in front of her, now an unmoving statue as he surveyed her. Maggie returned his bold gaze this time. She imagined she should feel uncomfortable with the way his eyes raked over her, but she did the same to him so she figured they were on equal footing. Other than his brown leggings and knotted rawhide beaded belt, he was adorned with leather ties above each bicep and a pendant necklace decorated with beads and two black feathers. The necklace hung in the center of his broad chest, banging against his caramel skin when he moved. Some sort of hanging flap was secured around his hips by a narrow cord; was it a breechcloth?

His features could not be called handsome by the standards she was accustomed, but there was a fierce strength in the sharp lines of his face that captivated her. When she slowly returned her gaze back to his eyes, she was startled to find they were a luminous deep blue, which seemed peculiar for an Indian. A corner of his mouth slanted downward as he met her appraisal with his own.

“Why are you here, stupid woman?” he asked in clear, but hesitant English. She did not care for the mocking tone of his voice nor the way he raised his eyebrows to wait for her answer, as if he held some authority over her.

“I—I don’t know,” she managed to stammer. “Why are you here?” she countered. This was apparently a humorous response, and it caused him to laugh aloud and smile.

“Maybe you should be glad I am here. Lucky for you that bear was not too hungry.”

Maggie closed her eyes and shook her head. Yup. Still there when she opened her eyes and looked again. The blasted man was grinning as though she had provided him endless entertainment. How on Earth was she sitting in the middle of the woods after being attacked by a bear, with a man dressed in an Indian costume laughing at her? Maybe she had been sleepwalking and stumbled onto…onto what? Wait, Halloween was next month! Yes, that had to be it! An early Halloween party and some adults running around in the woods in costumes, perhaps taking things a little too seriously. Hell, the guy was probably drunk, especially considering the way he shaved the side of his head for one silly costume event!

She could think of no other explanation that made sense. She knew she was missing something important, but her brain seemed to be in a fog and the self-preservation of denial was controlling her senses.

“I really don’t know how I got here, mister, but—”

Maggie snapped her mouth closed when remnants of memory began to rush back. She could recall picking up stones in the barn, and then cutting her hand.

The air surged like an electric charge as she looked down at the ground and the fine hair on her arms pricked up when she focused on the object. Lying on pine needles beside her was the dark green stone.

She slowly reached out and picked it up, its weight not too heavy but definitely substantial as she raised it in front of her face. It was still stained with her blood.

The man dropped to his knees beside her and snatched her wrist in his own large hand. His startling blue eyes widened and he drew back somewhat as he slowly raised his gaze to meet her own. She tried half-heartedly to pull her hand away, but he held it firm as his eyes remained locked with hers, a flutter settling down deep in her belly at the connection. She could see him swallow hard and his lips closed together in a tight line. Finally he spoke in a low, even tone, but his eyes remained fixed on her.

“Sawwehone Shacquohocan,” he said. “This is a Bloodstone. How did you come by it?”

“I found it in my barn. I was cleaning up. I dropped it, I guess,” she stammered. Her answer was an honest one, but it seemed to incite his agitation.

“You say you found it? Or stole it?” he asked.

“No! I didn’t steal it! I just found it,” she tried to explain. “But I didn’t steal it. It’s just a rock, for Christ’s sake!” she insisted. She had no idea why she was trying to justify herself to him. Despite the fact that she still felt disoriented and had been nearly mauled to death by a wild animal, she felt like she had to make him understand.

He plucked the stone from her hand and a hiss escaped from between his clenched teeth when they both saw the burn on her palm. A twist of lines scarred her skin where she held the stone, tender to touch and disturbingly…organized. As if a strange knot shape had been branded to her skin.

There was no more time to ponder her predicament because the man swiftly scooped her up and stood to his feet, holding her in his bare arms as if she weighed nothing at all. One hand rested gingerly around her shoulder where the bear had scratched her, and it was only then that she began to feel the sharp burning ache the claws had left in her skin.

“I can walk just fine, thank you,” she protested. He glanced down at her.

“Your wound needs to be bound. You have lost much blood.”

His purposeful gait cut a path through the underbrush, the tall growth brushing against his leggings as he navigated to a nearby clearing. When they entered the spot where a sorrel horse stood patiently ground tied, he let Maggie’s legs drop down but still he held his arms around her waist and kept her close. Her chin was even with his collarbone, and her cheek brushed against his chest. The scent of sweat mixed with evergreen and smoke bonded to him, overwhelming her senses. With a sickly feeling in her bones, Maggie glanced around the clearing. A panic began to rise as she looked at her surroundings and realized they were familiar.

They were standing at the entrance to her barn. Only it was not there.

She was aware it was damn impossible, but she knew the farm better than anyone did. They were standing on it—on her property. Two tall ancient Cyprus trees marked the spot behind the barn, overlooking a steep drop off that tumbled down to the river below. There was a winding gravel trail to navigate the slope, which still appeared to be there. She could hear the roar of the waterfall beyond the clearing.

The trees were shorter than they had been earlier in the day, the trunks a smaller diameter and their branches not yet as full. An old split rail fence had guarded the drop off to the river below for as long as she could remember, but it was not anywhere to be seen now. Her fingers curled into fists and she barely felt it when her nails dug crescent-shaped daggers into her palms.

“You said you found the Bloodstone. When did you find it?”

She knew it made no sense, but the truth was the only thing she could cling to with any certainty in the midst of rising panic.

“I found it today. This morning, the fifth of October.”

At this confession, he placed his fingers on her chin and twisted her head gently upwards to meet his stare, his head cocked to the side. His brows furrowed and his eyes searched her own in a question he could not seem to put to words. She did not understand what she was doing there, or who the man was. She was willing to wager he was just as confused as she was.

“It is now the month your people call September,” he replied.

“But it can’t be September,” she insisted. “That doesn’t make any sense! I was just here today, and I cut my hand— I think I passed out.”

He shook his head.

“This is the place I buried the Bloodstones one year ago. The ground is not disturbed. No one knows this place but me.”

“What…what year did you bury them?” she whispered, the words rushing out before she could stop the ridiculous question.

“The year your people call 1621.”

She felt relieved that his arms still held her as her knees buckled and the blessed darkness swallowed her one more time.

Something tickled her cheek, rhythmic in its motion. Her eyes were not open, but she could feel the sensation of swaying with the gait of the horse. She squeezed her eyelids shut, knowing she was not yet prepared to accept what she might see. If it was the woods and bear from her strange dream, she feared she would start screaming. She could remain in denial if she refused to look around.

A sharp scent of evergreen stung her senses, and as she curled her head downward she tasted the salty sweat of his skin from where her mouth had rested against him. She opened her hand and settled her palm flat against his chest. A gentle thud pounded beneath her fingers, nearly as musical as the gait of the horse they rode. He must have noticed she was awake, because as she stirred his warm hand slid up to cover hers where it rested over his heart. Calloused but strong, his touch immediately comforted her, so Maggie let her hand remain under his.

Curiosity took over and she opened her eyes. She sat sideways on the horse, held firm by the stranger’s arms. There was a jagged tear in her jeans and a flap of fabric exposed her leg where it rubbed against the horse’s coarse mane. Positioned securely in the embrace of the stranger, her legs lay against his leather-covered thigh, which he used to nudge the barrel of the horse. Her cheeks brightened in a flush when she realized she had been sleeping. Had she lost her mind?

“You said a word earlier. It sounded like you cursed at me. Kept-cha or something?” she stammered, for lack of anything sensible to say.

“I said keptchat. It means foolish person.” His arms flexed, and he lowered his mouth closer to her ear. A tendril of his loose brown hair glanced across her skin and the subtle motion sent a shiver through her. “Only a foolish woman would walk up to that old bear.”

She pulled her hand away and closed it into a fist, but she saw the corner of his lips turn up in a smile and she relaxed. She could not help but smile back at his teasing gesture. Now that his hand was free, he returned it to the leather reins, the gesture enclosing her deeper in his embrace as the horse continued to pace.

“You speak English.” More of a statement than a question, she felt his head nod in agreement.

“Yes. My uncle wanted me to learn the tongue. He fears the settlers do not always speak truth, so we should know their words. Many from my village have learned English.”

She considered his reasoning, which sounded sensible. For an Indian. In 1621.

“I – I don’t know your name. And I don’t belong here – I need to get home.”

“No.” He spoke the word soft but certain. He straightened and lodged her closer against his chest, his skill at riding while managing a wayward passenger quite apparent.

“No? What do you mean, no? I don’t know you. I can’t stay here – just take me back where you found me, I’ll find my way home.”

“My name is Winkeohkwet. The English call me Winn.” He lowered his voice with the next words. “You will not find your way home. It is not there anymore.”

“Stop the horse, let me down. That’s – that’s impossible!”

The horse did not plod along too rapidly, so she guessed she could jump down without injury. She shoved her hands against his chest and squirmed to show him she was serious.

“Let me down!”

“No. Your wounds need to be treated. You lost much blood.”

“I can go to a hospital for that! Let. Me. Down!”

“I know not what hos-tel is, but you will stop your fight!” he growled.

He uttered something harshly under his breath and sat abruptly back, causing the horse to drop its haunches and slide to a stop. Maggie twisted around and tried to pry his arm away from her waist, but the bastard was too strong and determined. How dare he refuse to release her! She wanted to wipe the grin off his smug face. She made another attempt to jump off his lap but he anticipated the motion, defeating her attempts to flee. Who the hell did he think he was? She’d damn well get down if she wanted to!

Frustration washed through her, surging over her body like a rapid. She wanted to fight, to make him let her go, and then…then she would just go home. It sounded like a simple plan, but stark reality confirmed she was terribly lost. She panicked with the knowledge that her current predicament was not a dream, and that the raven-haired man who held her was very, very real.

“Stop fighting, woman,” he said, the words even but ground out in a hoarse whisper. “There is nowhere for you to go.”

“Stop calling me woman, my name is Maggie,” she whispered, her eyes imprisoned by his softened gaze. Frustration remained in the pit of her stomach, tinged with fear of her impossible situation. The impatient glare on Winn’s face faded and he cocked his head slightly to the side as he studied her. His eyes darted a glance at her flushed cheeks, then traveled downward to her lips. She knew her cheek was chafed and smeared with dirt-laced tears, and she suddenly wished he were not so damn close.

His hand slipped upward and his fingers pressed against the back of her neck, his grasp large enough to cup her face and tilt it toward him so that their eyes met. She had an abrupt awareness of his closeness and tasted the salt of her own tears on her lips. His blue eyes captured her gaze, holding her prisoner more securely than his arms ever could.

“Stop it then, Maggie,” he whispered, enunciating her name in his peculiar accent. “There is nowhere for you to go.”

“I want to go home. Just let me down.”

His eyes softened as he shook his head. “You cannot return to your place. I am…sorry.”

The smothering panic that gripped her eased, his touch like embers against her skin despite the chill of the evening breeze. His fingers moved in her hair, as if he meant to comfort her, the gentle soothing motion an anchor which helped her slow down her hammering heart and get some sort of handle on the panic.

Flung through time by someone unknown force, saved from imminent death by a fearless stranger—none of it could be rational, and submitting to such an implausible scenario caused her to question her own sanity. How could she possibly accept it? Could he be real—could it all possibly be real?

They both heard the steps of horses coming their way. His face remained close to hers and she could see him become tense. She chastised herself for clinging to the man, but she let him hold her all the same.

“What meaning is Maggie? A strange name,” he asked, her name drawn out as he tested it on his tongue.

“Maggie? It doesn’t mean anything, I think.”

“You belong here now,” he said. His hands left her face and he let out a sigh. “My brothers are near. They will ride with us back to the village.” He gathered the reins together and the horse snorted, hooves prancing in response.

“Ntënuyëm!”

Winn uttered the greeting as a shriek and the two newcomers answered immediately in kind. His horse began to stomp, lifting its hooves in place in anticipation as the two riders approached.

They dressed similar to him, in leather leggings and beaded adornments, bare-chested as well. If he had not told her they were his kin, she would not have guessed as much. One man, shorter than Winn but with slightly more breadth to his shoulders and waist, stood silent behind a round creased face. His brown eyes held a careful tolerance as he deferred to his companion. The second man compared to Winn in stature, but when his hostile black eyes fell sharp on Maggie, the fear that Winn had chased away returned. His dark copper skin gleamed with sweat, its shade quite different from Winn’s lighter brown. The two men wasted little time in survey of her before they spoke to Winn.

They spoke in short, tight responses, the cadence of their exchange abrupt. She had no idea what they were saying or what language they spoke, but she was pretty sure the two newcomers were angry. The shorter man said little since the other seemed to dominate the conversation. The second man shot a glare at Maggie, then at Winn, and erupted into a furious stream of shouting. Winn listened without interruption, but then something the other man uttered caused him to snatch Maggie’s bloody hand and hold it up for them to see.

“Sawwehone Shacquohocan!”

Although his body was tense behind her, the words he spoke were calm. Not knowing what they were saying infuriated her, especially since she seemed to be the target of the other man’s anger. At the sight of her hand, the two men fell silent. The silence stretched as they stared.

“What is going on?” she asked, half turned around in Winn’s lap. She snatched her wrist away, a motion that brought laughter from the shorter man. The other remained silent, his lips pursed in a tight line.

“Your woman has a loud mouth, nimahtes. Maybe you should tame her first, then come back home,” the short man laughed. His dark eyes brightened and he crossed his arms over his chest as he chuckled. The second brother did not smile.

Winn’s horse stomped the ground and tossed his head.

“She has a wound that must be cleaned. I will tame her after it is healed.”

They spoke in English this time, but Maggie did not like the conversation any better in her own language. What happened to the man who comforted her so sweetly, as if he wanted to chase her fear away? Why was he laughing with his brothers about taming her? Scarlet warmth rose from her neck to her cheeks at the implication.

She decided enough was enough. Winn’s hold lessened a fraction as he spoke with the men. Maggie took advantage of the distraction and jumped down off the horse, taking off in a sprint out of the clearing back into the woods. The wound on her shoulder screamed in protest at the effort, and a fresh surge of blood saturated her torn parka. How could she be so stupid, trusting a stranger? Maybe she was trapped in another time, but she did not have to act like an imbecile, and she was certainly not going to be tamed by any man!

It took him mere seconds to catch her.

His fist caught her around the waist, knocking her off balance and sending them both sprawling into a heap on the forest floor. Maggie kicked and tried to scratch him, but his hands were quick and he proceeded to shove her fists above her head into the dirt. She cried out at the searing pain in her shoulder and tried to catch a breath through aching ribs. His strapping legs entrapped her kicking limbs, and his hips pinned her to the ground. He panted shallow with the effort of containing her struggle, and seeing his frustration felt like a measure of triumph. He glared at her, wordless, as she tried to scramble away, and she felt the cold earth against her bare back. Her torn shirt exposed the strap of her pink lace bra at one shoulder and his gaze flickered as he glanced downward and his eyes fixated on the bright color. The hand holding her hip traveled slowly upward and his fingers brushed the edge of her undergarment.

“Oh, no you don’t!” she exploded. She slammed her head up against his, and his blue eyes flared as a scowl creased his face with a low uttered curse.

“Enough!” he shouted.

Blood dripped from his mouth as he thrust his hand into her hair and slammed her head back to the ground. She cried out in pain and surprise at the reaction and frustrated tears formed across her lashes. She understood immediately that her plan to get away was a foolish one. The man who chased her tears away was gone, replaced by a furious warrior bent on submission.

“Do not run from me again!” he said.

“I won’t stay here. I don’t belong here!”

“You do belong here.” His cold glare betrayed no emotion other than anger and she knew she tread a dangerous path with her resistance. She expected some sort of retribution but was shocked when he produced a long cord of rawhide and began to wrap it snug around her wrists.

“No! Damn it, let me go!” she screamed. He ducked to evade her head butt and continued to tie her hands, otherwise ignoring her outburst as blood from his split lower lip dripped down his set jaw. She cursed through gritted teeth. “You bastard! No! Let me go!”

He dragged her to her feet, and when she kicked out at him he snatched her chin painfully in his fingers. He spoke the warning low, a hiss that only the two of them could hear.

“I will bind your legs if you kick me. I will bind your foul mouth if you speak. Do you understand?”

She glared at the face now shrouded in an unreadable mask. Her wrists ached against the binding, and her shoulder throbbed where the bear claw marked her. There were few options available to her. She closed her eyes and nodded one time in reluctant submission.

He grunted a word she did not understand and then hoisted her into his arms with disturbing ease. The obedient horse waited a few paces away. He placed her back on the beast and swung up behind her before the other two men joined them.

There was no more talking.

Winn did not look at his two brothers as he rode with the woman. She remained silent now, her fire subdued for the moment. He regretted the need to threaten her, but he was stunned by the way she fought him. Memory of the manner in which she defied him in front of his brothers caused a scowl to darken his face again. He knew she was from another time by her odd clothes and strange way of speaking, but even so, he could not fathom why she dared challenge him. Did women in her time disobey their men and just do as they pleased? He could not let her defiance go without reprimand, especially when his brothers stood by as witnesses.

He gripped the reins tighter and sighed. Maybe the Great Creator made a mistake. He looked down at her head lying against his chest, her amber locks sprawled across his skin. By the Gods, she was beautiful, but so willful! He remembered the way it felt when she fought beneath him, the way she held nothing back. Even then, with anger clouding his thoughts, he was enthralled by her.

The Great Creator must have made a mistake. She could not be the one he was meant to kill.

His brother Chetan laughed no longer, although he seemed to enjoy questioning Winn’s manhood when the woman first tried to get away. Makedewa, however, kept a tense silence. Other than his original outburst of disbelief that Winn did not slaughter the woman on sight, Makedewa kept his thoughts to himself and rode ahead alone. Winn suspected it was not the last he would hear from his temperamental younger brother on the matter, but at least he had sense enough to let it be until they returned to the village.

It was good that the men remained silent since he was in no mood to respond to any more of their jibes. With her sleeping in his arms he could barely concentrate on guiding the horse, let alone argue with his brothers. Closing his eyes gave no relief, damn her. Even her scent maddened him, a sweet honeysuckle aroma that drifted to his senses with each pace of the horse.

Winn shook his head, confused at the pull this woman held over him. He grew up listening to tales about the Bloodstones, how someday a Time Walker would arrive who would end the life of the Great Weroance. All young braves longed for the chance to kill a Time Walker and bring honor on the tribe for the sacrifice. After all, Time Walkers were the most powerful of the Blooded Ones who once lived among them. Everyone knew the prophecy, his brothers included, and they all had reasons to anticipate the coming of the next Time Walker. Many wished for another sacrifice to gain favor with the Weroance, with the belief it would bring prosperity to their decimated Paspahegh tribe. Opechancanough bestowed the greatest rewards on those warriors who served him the head of a Time Walker. Yet those gifts had been the heads of men, never a woman.

Winn let his chin rest against her for the briefest of moments. He did not want to wake her, giving her less opportunity to cause trouble in front of his brothers. As much as her presence was a shock to him, it was even more so to his brothers.

Winn knew not why he failed to kill her on sight. Perhaps because she was a woman. Or was it because she brought out something raw in him, something primal, driving him senseless just as it made him afraid? Once his uncle learned of her arrival he would be bound to act, her gender of no consequence.

The bundle of sleeping fire in his arms stirred, her rose-stained lips falling open as she sighed. He needed badly to shift his weight, but he did not want to wake her. Her battered body needed rest, and he needed to regain some semblance of control.

Her hand slipped down across his waist as they rode. She was a curious thing. She was not tall, about the same height as the women of his village, perhaps shorter. Her skin was creamy ivory like the bone-handled knife in his belt, her hair scented with meadow flowers. Dirt smudged her face and neck and leaves tangled in the bright auburn hair that flowed nearly to her waist. He wished to take her to the river and bathe her himself, but he knew his sister and mother would not allow that once they laid eyes on her.

Despite the surge of possession that railed through his bones when he looked at her, a current of anger remained. How could this slip of a woman defy and belittle him in front of his brothers? If he had any sense he would end her life now and leave her body to the wolves.

How could he follow through with what he was bound by honor to do?

He uttered a half-snort, half-growl at his own thoughts, eliciting a curious glance from Chetan. Winn ignored the wordless inquiry from his brother and continued the ride in silence. If the woman was powerful enough to cause him both barely constrained anger and uncontrolled lust in the span of one evening, he feared what any more time in her presence would wreak on his self-control.

He wondered again if the petulant gods made a terrible mistake as he glanced down at her. He could see the curve of her body pressed against his chest, covered by the remains of her torn clothes. Winn grinned as he recalled how she exploded when he examined the strange pink fabric covering her shoulder, her eyes alight with fury as she fought him like an animal. Of course, she must have feared the worst by his actions, and for that he was sorry, since he meant no harm. Ah, she probably thought he was a dog, pawing at her like that!

He let out a groan as he adjusted her sleeping body in his lap.

Perhaps the Great Creator enjoyed watching him suffer.

“Shh, shh, Maggie, it’s only a dream.” Marcus wrapped her in his burly arms, smoothing the hair back off her tear-stained face as she cried. She shook with the force of the nightmare. Although she knew Marcus would never let anyone hurt her, she still feared the darkness. Once the lights dimmed again and he left her alone, the shadows would dance across the walls and her toys would begin to talk. The mischievous teddy bear on her dresser would grin, and the string puppet hanging from a hook would taunt her until she was again screaming.

“Please don’t go! They’ll come back!” she sobbed.

“Aww, lamb, it’s all right now,” he soothed her, his deep voice humming through his chest. He took something from his pocket and placed it in her hand. “Here, you hold onto this. It keeps the nightmares away.”

She looked down at the gray stone figure. Heavy in her hand, it was the size of her palm, the edges pitted and scarred. It was a bird, its wings just beginning to lift in flight, with a slightly open beak that seemed to cry out some unspoken promise.

“It will keep them away?” she asked. He nodded.

“Of course. It’s a raven, a great brave bird. The raven keeps safe those he loves.”

“Well,” she sniffed, “how do I know he loves me? He just met me!”

Marcus chuckled.

“He’s always known ye, lamb. He’s loved ye forever.”

It was the second time Maggie woke in a strange place, but this time the disjointed feeling lasted for only seconds as the echo of her dream dissipated. She could not explain how or why she was in another time, however she was painfully aware of the reality of her predicament as her hands twisted against the rawhide ties. Her damaged shoulder throbbed in time with her rapid heartbeat as she glanced furtively around the unfamiliar place.

Above her a rounded roof over a circular walled structure protected her slumber, and Maggie vaguely recalled something about Indians who lived in wigwams. Lined with thatch and shingles of rough-hewn tree bark over a bent sapling frame, it confined the warmth from the fire into the space, giving it a cozy ambience. A soft pile of fur cushioned her spot on the ground, and she could feel the lick of the flames warm her skin as it funneled upward in a wisp to escape through a soot-stained smoke hole. Across the fire, she could see a girl in a rawhide dress bent over a large basket, rummaging through the contents.

When Maggie tried to push herself up and failed, the girl noticed. She left the basket, shaking her head at Maggie as she muttered to herself in that other language. The agitated gesture tossed her two dark braids around her head as she kneeled, and Maggie bit back a scream when the girl produced a knife from her waistband. Was the girl going to stab her? She had done nothing wrong!

Maggie scrambled backward as the woman crawled toward her.

“No! Please, I didn’t do anything!”

The Indian girl paused and tilted her head, then her lips widened in a smile.

“Shhhh! Be still!” the woman laughed, her English stilted but easily understood. Maggie thought it was decidedly not funny, but she did as the woman demanded and prayed it was the right thing to do.

With a quick practiced flick of the knife, the woman sliced the rawhide binding around Maggie’s wrist. She then sat back on her heels and chuckled, continuing to shake her head in amusement.

“I’m glad you think that’s funny,” Maggie replied. She rubbed her sore wrists, happy to see the skin was not broken, just a bit raw. Her wristwatch remained intact, shimmering in the firelight. The woman reached for her hand and Maggie let her examine it, figuring she would be dead already if the Indian girl wanted to kill her.

“You wear a strange bracelet,” the girl said softly. “And you carry the Bloodstone.” Maggie nodded.

“I—I didn’t steal it. I already told him that.”

“I know. It marked you. It belongs to you now,” the girl agreed. She smiled again and closed her small brown hands around Maggie’s fist. “I am Teyas, sister to Winkeohkwet. I cleaned the wound. The bear marked you…make a deep cut. You understand?”

The girl spoke slow and careful, her English edged with uncertainty but still understandable enough. Grateful to her for her kindness, Maggie smiled back.

“Yes, I understand. Thank you, my shoulder does feel better.”

Both women relaxed in a mutual appreciation and curiosity. Maggie allowed the girl to remove what was left of her parka, and watched as Teyas examined it in fascination. The girl rubbed the fabric between her fingers and squealed when it made a scratching sound, then she held it to her pert nose to catch a scent. Seeming satisfied, she placed it aside and reached for the basket. Made from woven reed, the large flat basket held an assortment of garments similar to the ones Teyas wore. Maggie did not want to undress in front of the girl, but she was fearful of damaging the tenuous bond between them so she did what the girl asked. Her cheeks flushed as her exposed skin remained bared longer than necessary, since Teyas insisted on careful inspection of each item of clothing removed. Maggie eventually ended up in a plain tan dress with bits of rabbit fur on the edges, her legs wrapped in fur-lined leggings and soft flat moccasins decorated with colorful beads.

Teyas picked up an object that tumbled from the heap of clothes. It was the heavy raven figurine. Maggie held out her hand for it, hoping the Indian girl would return it. After turning it over in her fingers a few times, Teyas placed it in her palm with a smile.

“My friend gave it to me, it’s just a toy,” Maggie explained. “A raven to keep bad dreams away.”

“Raven? Ha!” Teyas snorted with a giggle. “They bring trouble. Just ask my brother.”

Maggie shook her head. She tucked the raven into a fold of her soft new dress.

“Uhm, that’s okay, I’d rather not.”

Her shoulder ached, but the bleeding was finished and the bandage wrapped snugly around her gave it support. She gladly took the cup Teyas offered, not knowing what it was, but too thirsty to care. It was a sweet, thick fruit nectar that did little to quench the dryness, but felt warm as it settled in her belly.

“Thank you,” she said after finishing the entire cup. Since Teyas said she was Winn’s sister, she wondered if the man was still nearby, and if so, what were her chances of leaving? He made it abundantly clear she was here to stay, whether she objected or not. She wondered why the man seemed at ease with the notion that she was from another time. Maggie was in tentative acceptance of the idea, but still had hope of waking up in her own bed at some point. Winn, however, almost behaved as if he expected her to drop into his lap. Did he know something about how she arrived? And if he did, could he send her back?

The bearskin door flap being pushed aside interrupted her musing. An older woman with one long grey streaked braid entered the enclosure, followed by Winn. She was dressed in a simple doeskin skirt, with a loose fur shawl covering her shoulders. Winn had discarded his leggings and stood glaring at her behind the woman, his jaw rigid and any emotion he might have had well hidden. Anger welled inside her as she recalled what he had done to her and boldly glared at him in return. His eyes widened for a moment and his lips parted as if to speak, but he quickly clamped his mouth shut and his face returned to an impassioned blank slate.

Teyas tugged at her hand. The older woman spoke, and both Teyas and Winn deferred to her with the respect of their attention. Teyas began to smile and nod, but Winn remained silent. He said nothing until the woman folded her arms across her chest and gave an emphatic nod. At that point, Winn said something abrupt and tense. It was frustrating to have no idea what was being said, especially when she could plainly see they were discussing her. After a terse exchange, they turned to her.

“Maggie, my mother, Chulensak Asuwak, gives you welcome. She is happy to meet you.” Teyas drew her name out into one long breath as Winn had done earlier, but it was close enough so Maggie did not attempt to correct her.

Teyas served as translator, listening to her mother and then relaying the message with careful enunciation. Winn observed, but remained so tense she could see the outline of each muscle across his folded arms.

“I, uh, please tell her I said thank you. And for the clothes, and for taking care of me, as well,” Maggie stammered. At least they were including her in the conversation, but it would take some time to get used to speaking through translation.

Teyas nodded and smiled, and relayed the message. Her mother nodded as well, but there was more she wanted to say.

“Mother asks from what time you traveled, and she says she wishes you had a good journey.”

“What time? You mean…what year?”

Teyas nodded. “We do not keep time like the English, but we understand it. Yes, what year?”

The words felt alien on her tongue, but akin to a confirmation of reality. It took her a few moments to compose herself before she could reply.

“Two thousand twelve. The year 2012. That’s what it was when I left,” she answered. Winn muttered a sharp retort in response but otherwise kept silent. The older woman kneeled down beside Maggie and patted her hand. Maggie could not help but smile at the comforting gesture.

“It must be very different, the time you come from,” Teyas said, her eyes wide.

“Yes, I guess it is,” Maggie agreed. She looked up at Winn. Although the two women settled down beside her on the furs, he kept his distance, arms crossed and legs planted in a rigid stance. “Where am I? I mean, what is this place called? None of this makes sense to me.”

“We are the last of the Paspahegh people, of the Powhatan tribe. This land is called Tsenacommacah, where all Powhatans live. Does that have meaning to you?”

Maggie swallowed back the lump in her throat as she nodded. Yes, it did have meaning, but it still seemed ridiculous.

“Teyas, I don’t understand how this happened, how I got here. I just really want to go home.”

She noticed Winn stiffen when she made the confession. Why did it matter to him if she left? The man bordered on infuriating. The span of emotions he incited in her within one day was enough to make her head spin. First, he saved her from certain death, and then he tenderly comforted her through her fear. Then he turned into an angry, stubborn ass that tackled her like a linebacker and proceeded to fondle her bra. Yet he stood there glaring as she spoke, obviously bristling at the notion she wanted to go home.

Well, he could take a flying leap. If he refused to help her, she would find someone who would.

“Maggie, we cannot send you home. The Bloodstone magic is very powerful, but we do not control it. You are here for a reason,” Teyas tried to explain. Chulensak Asuwak spoke rapidly and Teyas struggled to translate her message. “Mother says she gives you her protection. She remembers the summer when the Blooded Ones lived among us. Many of them were Time Walkers. We have never met another woman Time Walker since then, and she tells you she will not let harm come to you.”

“That is very kind, but I don’t understand—what reason do you think I’m here for? Why would anyone want to hurt me?”

“You have traveled here with the Bloodstone. Our Weroance seeks death of all Time Walkers.”

Maggie did not protest when Teyas took her hand, squeezing it in her own, but she swallowed back the stiff lump in her throat at the implied threat.

“Death?” she whispered. She knew she was not ready to hear any more, nor would she ever be, and when she saw the puzzled look Teyas sent to Winn, her worst suspicion was confirmed.

“We will keep you safe, Red Woman. Winn did not kill you, he brought you here to us. There has been no other woman Time Walker since the Pale Witch. The Great Creator must have sent you to us for a reason.”

So they would not kill her – for now. Maggie reached up and twisted a strand of her own hair between her fingers. It gleamed against the shimmer of the firelight. Red Woman, indeed.

Teyas and Chulensak Asuwak left the house after showering her with embraces and welcomes. Numbness seeped through her skin, and although she appreciated their heartfelt acceptance, she could not yet process what had happened or what she should do about it. The absence of the two women was purposeful and it left her alone with Winn. The blasted man still stood there, silent and brooding. She must have misunderstood what the girl meant. It had to be some mistake; she was part of no prophecy, especially one that meant to see her dead. She was just Maggie McMillan, a terribly lost twenty-one-year-old woman in a strange place.

The silence between them stretched as tense as the muscles in his crossed arms. Maggie remained seated on the furs at his feet, and the irony of the position suddenly occurred to her. Is this what Winn expected of a woman? Submission and silence? Of all the places time travel might have deposited her, the irony of being a twenty-first century woman stranded in the seventeenth century did not escape her. She tried to stifle the insane reflexive laughter bubbling up in her throat.

“What is funny?” he demanded.

“Everything,” she laughed, letting it out in a glorious release. “Me? I must look like a filthy mess. And you? You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here!” Frustration waned for the instant as she rocked back and laughed so hard tears squeezed from her eyes. His eyebrows rose and his eyes gleamed cobalt in the light as he watched her laugh. For a moment she feared he would be angry, but she was relieved to see his shoulders relax and his arms slowly fall to his sides. The corner of his lip twitched and eventually turned upward in a lopsided grin.

“You may be right. You do need a bath,” he agreed as he laughed with her. Her laughter slowed when he held a hand out to her. His grin remained but tightened somewhat as he waited for her to respond.

She knew this was an offering of peace and she would be foolish to refuse him. Maggie placed her palm in his and he clasped his larger one around it. He pulled her gently to her feet, the skin of his fingers calloused but warm against her own hand. She tried not to grimace at the burning pain the movement elicited in her shoulder, but the limb was stiff and Winn was not a man easily fooled.

“I would show you my village, but perhaps you need rest.”

The trauma of the last few hours had wreaked a fatigue on her body she had never experienced, as she certainly was unaccustomed to blunt force blows wielded by a bear. The truth of his observation gave her weary body permission to accept it for now. Maggie felt her shoulders sag and her back relax as she nodded in agreement.

Winn led her toward the back of the yehakin, where a thick pile of furs lay over a mat woven from coffee colored reeds. His intent was clear so she started to sit, surprised to feel his hands at her waist to assist her to the ground. She murmured a word of thanks which he did not acknowledge, but instead he turned away to rummage through a covered basket along the wall.

Maggie watched him, mystified by his presence yet still fighting twinges of irritation. She knew she was too tired to argue anymore, she would have to regroup and save it for another time. Besides, the way her shoulder burned, she feared more damage than could be treated without modern medicine, and with one less functional shoulder, she was as good as useless.

Winn found what he was looking for and returned to kneel at her side. He held out a smooth wooden bowl to her, which he placed in her hands. Her stomach rumbled at the sight of the ripe red berries and strips of dried meat that looked like jerky. There was something soft and brown and shaped in ball that seemed the consistency of cornmeal, and he broke it apart and handed her a piece. Past caring what the food was, she was grateful for anything and quickly dug in. Winn sat down facing her with his legs crossed, watching her devour the meal. He smiled as she shoved berries into her mouth, and when she realized he was laughing at her she stopped eating, mortified.

“I’m sorry. Here, have some, you must be hungry, too,” she said as her cheeks filled with crimson. He waved her off.

“No, little one,” he laughed. “You eat. I am a good hunter. I will need to hunt every day to feed you.”

For a moment she considered dumping the bowl in his lap, but she was too hungry to waste any food so she tried to take his teasing gracefully. She went back to eating with a scowl, shaking her head and biting back a smile. He reached over and plucked a few berries from the bowl then tossed them in his mouth as he continued to watch her. When the bowl was empty, he passed a cup brimming with sweet apple juice to her, which she found delightful as it ran down her throat thick and warm. She finished in one long swallow, then quickly wiped the back of her hand across her dripping mouth and handed the cup back to him. Winn refilled it and took his own taste, downing the entire cup as she had, but with much more control and finesse.

“Thank you…Winn,” she said when he put the cup down. He said nothing for a moment, but then nodded.

“You should sleep. You will be safe here in my yehakin.”

He pulled a loose fur from the pile and reached forward. Maggie held her breath as he entered her space, his arms closing around her as he placed the fur on her shoulders.

“This…house…yehakin…it belongs to you?” she asked.

“Yes. I will send Teyas to stay with you. She will be good company.”

Maggie wondered where he would sleep and nearly asked him to stay, more for want of someone to remind her she was not dreaming than for actual companionship, but ended up flushing pink again as she reconsidered. He raised an eyebrow in response and Maggie dropped her chin to avoid his stare.

“Okay. Thank you, Winn,” she murmured.

He made a low grunting noise in reply and stood up.

“Good dreams, Maggie.”

When she looked up, the bear hide hanging over the doorway flapped closed. He was already gone.

Maggie walked beside Teyas through the center of the village, glad the younger girl’s arm was laced securely through hers. The packed clay beneath her feet lined a wide lane throughout the heart of the town, smooth under her moccasin-clad toes. The girl chatted gaily, pointing out the Great Long House that formed the hub of the community, taking care to explain how important it was to her people. It stunned Maggie to see how comfortable Teyas seemed with the idea of her time travel. The girl was patient and thorough as she gave Maggie lessons on their ways, focusing frequently on the role of women and how they were expected to behave.

Although Maggie listened, her scattered memories of history lessons competed with what Teyas said and it was difficult to resolve it all. Teyas said the small village was Paspahegh; from what Maggie recalled, the Paspahegh people were the first tribe that English settlers to Jamestown encountered after their arrival, but the Paspahegh disappeared from the written historical record shortly thereafter.

The numerous horses were another peculiar matter. Teyas explained that many years before, her people had helped Spanish survivors of a shipwreck. Most of the crew were lost, along with all their supplies and cargo, but many of the ponies swam to shore. The handful of Spaniards that survived gifted the Paspahegh with a half dozen ponies, and eventually the foreigners left to search for their own people they believed were settled somewhere in the south.

Listening as best she could while taking in the busy village, her attention peaked when Teyas spoke of her family. She explained how the lineage of the Chief, or Weroance, came from the maternal line, and how their Great Weroance Opechancanough was brother to Chulensak Asuwak. She was not surprised by the role women played, since she knew a bit about the early settlement of Virginia and had once found stories about the First People quite fascinating. However, the reality of living it was a different matter entirely.

Maggie dared a question at that point, hoping she would not offend Teyas or cause a stir.

“So where is your father, Teyas? Does he have light eyes, like Winn?”

Teyas shook her head. “No, Winn and I do not share fathers. Chulensak Asuwak is second wife to my father, Pepamhu. He lives with his people, the Nansemond, and sometimes he visits. Pale Feather is the father of Winkeohkwet.”

“Sounds complicated,” Maggie said. Teyas smiled and nodded to a group of women seated in a circle working hides. Maggie followed suit and smiled, not too surprised to see a few glares returned among scattered shy smiles. Teyas noticed the somewhat unfriendly greeting and pulled Maggie to a stop in front of the women.

“Chitkwesikw! Eholekw toholao!” the younger girl hissed. Several pairs of eyes widened at her words and a few heads ducked to the ground in shame. Teyas hooked her arm back through hers and continued walking.

“What did you say to them?”

“They are jealous women. I told them to be quiet.” Teyas squeezed her arm as she smiled.

Maggie swallowed hard and did not reply, but squeezed back. She was at loss over how to get out of the situation, knowing she had no weapons in her arsenal to combat the predictions of an Indian prophecy. She changed the subject back to where they left off.

“So Pale Feather has light eyes then?”

“Oh, yes. He is like you. A weopsit.”

She gasped and swallowed so fast that she choked, ending up in a coughing fit. Teyas patted her back, eyeing her strangely.

“Does Pale Feather know how to use the Bloodstone?” she sputtered, trying to catch her breath and get more information before Teyas clammed up again.

“Of course. He used one to leave many summers ago, before Winkeohkwet was born.”

The sliver of hope she allowed to surface found a quick death. The only person she knew so far who could help her besides Winn was gone. Could it be any more unfair?

“Oh. That’s too bad,” Maggie said, more to herself than to Teyas.

Two familiar warriors approached, just as Maggie gritted her teeth against the pain of a sharp rock stabbing through her moccasin. She would never get used to the clothes or shoes, and failed to understand why she couldn’t just wear her own boots. After all, it was not like it was some big secret that she came from a different time; everyone she met so far acted as if it was a perfectly normal occurrence.

“You look much better today, Red Woman,” Chetan said with a shy grin.

“Thanks,” she replied. Teyas seemed welcoming to the men, and Maggie wondered how they were all related after the mini-genealogy lesson she received. Makedewa flanked Chetan, his demeanor much less flattering, and Maggie again felt a twinge of unease in his presence.

“Did the mare drop her foal yet, Chetan?” Teyas asked, pointing toward a lean-to and corral where several horses stood eating.

“Yes, but neither will live. The mare bleeds, and the foal will not stand. They will die soon.”

“What mare?” Maggie interrupted. Chetan waved his hand toward the corral.

“She lies there. The colt is too big and his legs too weak. Go see,” he offered, moving aside to let them pass. Maggie pushed in front to see what they spoke of, and was sad to see a large sorrel mare lying motionless inside the lean-to. Her barrel heaved with each breath, her silken nostrils flaring with the effort to push the air through her lungs. Her belly was slathered in sweat, and her eyes sallow.

Maggie made no decision to ask permission. She lifted her leg and ducked under the wooden rail, sinking to her knees in the straw beside the mare. The sorrel twitched her ear forward and made no other movement, except to shift her eye back to the foal at her side. Lying in a heap, gangly legs curled under his body, the nose of her colt lay buried against her lathered flank. He could not reach her teat to nurse, nor could she move to help him.

“He can’t reach her—he needs her milk,” she said when the man reached her side. Chetan squatted down beside her, but Teyas and Makedewa hung back, silent.

“Yes, he will die without her. He is not even strong enough to stand. I know little about this mare, she came as a gift from the English. She is much different than our Spanish ponies,” he answered. He ran his hand down the neck of the mare and patted her softly. “Go in peace, nehenaonkes.”

Maggie already knew the mare was past hope from the pale color of her gums and the way her skin hung limply from her muscles. She had lost too much blood in the birth, but the colt might still be saved. If she could get him to nurse, perhaps he would stand, and then he would have a chance. Her eyes darted around the corral, and when could find nothing of help she turned to Chetan.

“Do you have a sack? Like you can carry water in?” she asked.

“Sack?” he frowned. “Mpiakhakw?” He held out a soft skin that Maggie thought might be the bladder of some animal, but it was perfect and her face broke into a wide smile.

“Yes, that’s perfect! Mpiakh-akw!”

“Do you know horses, Red Woman?”

“I raise horses back where I come from. I think I can help this one, if you help me,” she replied. She saw the hesitancy when he glanced back at his brother, but was relieved when he quickly returned to her for instructions.

“Help the new one. What do you need?”

“We need to milk the mare, the colt needs the colostrum.”

“The first milk?”

“Yes, we need to milk it from her.” Maggie crawled closer to the mare, fairly certain there would be no resistance, but she watched for a swinging hoof in case the dying mother objected to her teat being milked. Maggie never had a mare die at birth, but she had helped milk a sick mare once, and knew she could extract something to help the colt. The mare let out a sigh when Maggie grasped the base of the swollen teat and massaged it downward, but other than that, the horse did not stir.

Chetan bent over her shoulder, nodding encouragement at her work. The milk was slow to start, but then it suddenly began to rush in a steady flow into the bladder skin, filling it quicker than she anticipated.

“We need another, Chetan, hurry!” she called out, unwilling to risk losing even a few drops of the precious liquid. Chetan shouted to Makedewa, who snapped a curt reply, causing Chetan to groan in frustration. Teyas stepped forward, snatched the water bladder from Makedewa’s belt, and thrust it through the fence rail at Chetan. Teyas stood on the low rail and leaned over to watch, and Makedewa stalked off amid a growl of what she could only imagine was cursing.

Chetan held the second bladder until it filled, and Maggie stopped milking.

“I need a knife to cut a hole,” she said. He did not hesitate. He unsheathed a small dagger from the edge of his legging and handed it to her. Their eyes met for a moment, and Maggie was pleased at the trust in his gaze. They both grinned when she plucked a hole in the bottom of the first full bladder and watched the milk shoot out in a steady stream into her hand. She quickly pinched the hole closed and sat down beside the listless colt, which nickered softly at the scent of milk on her hands. He did not struggle when she placed his over-large head in her lap, but seemed not to know what to do when she placed the makeshift nipple in his mouth. The colt wrinkled his nose and sneezed.

Teyas and Chetan exchanged and anxious glance. Maggie refused to let the colt ignore the life-saving nourishment, and squirted some of the warm fluid into her hand. She cupped her palm to the colt’s nose and fought as he tried to weakly pull away, and then suddenly either from exhaustion or her persistence, he stopped.

The colt stuck out his tongue and licked her hand.

She quickly filled her palm again, and the colt licked it dry. She heard a weak nicker from the mare and smiled.

“We’ll save your baby, momma,” she whispered to the dying mother. She knew it was her last breath. Maggie offered the bladder again to the colt, and he eagerly latched onto it and began to suck. She held the bladder against her breast and cradled the colt’s head in her lap, reaching out to scratch him gently along his mane.

“The mother is gone,” another voice said. Winn kneeled down beside her.

“I know,” she said softly. She slowly raised her eyes to meet Winn’s gaze, relieved to see his face soft and his blue eyes shining. He looked quite handsome when he was happy, she thought.

“You have soft hands. My young horse is lucky you care for him. I have no warriors to spare for one sick colt.”

“Your horse?”

“A gift from the English. The mare was mine. Thank you for helping this one.”

His quiet stare held hers for a timeless moment, his brows shading the slits of his deep blue eyes as the corners of his mouth turned slightly up. She could tell neither if he was amused or just grateful, but the intensity caused her belly to do that strange aching thing and she ducked her eyes downward in response.

“I’ll stay and feed him. He’ll need to eat several times tonight. And then we need a goat, or a cow, for more milk,” she stammered. The colt began to slow his feeding, and she wiped a froth of milk from his whiskers with the edge of her dress. His lips dropped away, and his head felt heavy again in her lap as he lay satiated and began to snore. A sleepy musical whinny filled the silence.

Winn glanced down and noticed the knife, which he plucked from the dirt and held out to his brother. “Chetan, your knife.”

Maggie nearly forgot his brother stood beside them. Chetan took the knife, but his eyes met those of his brother and they exchanged a stare she did not understand. Chetan lifted his chin and held the knife out to Maggie.

“You saved a life with this weapon. It is my gift to you, Maggie,” he said. Stunned, she was slow to accept the gift, but he reached gently for her hand and placed the knife in her palm. He closed her fingers around it and glared at Winn. He then turned quickly and left the lean-to. Maggie noticed Teyas shoot them a wide-eyed look, and then jump off the fence to follow him.

“You cannot stay here all night, little one,” Winn said softly, breaking the silence. She chose not to question the knife exchange for fear of changing his grateful demeanor, especially when she meant to challenge him for the right to stay with the colt. Caring for the animal was something solid she could focus on, a way to find some foothold in the insanity of her predicament.

“I will stay, I can take care of him.”

Her breath ceased when he moved behind her in the straw, sitting close and leaning his back against the base of a tree. He then reached out and pulled her slowly to his chest, pulling the colt with her to remain snuggled on her lap. The colt continued to snore. Winn tightened his arms around her waist, and she felt his chin rest on her shoulder.

“You argue too much. Sleep. I will watch over you,” he grumbled. Maggie smiled at the twinge of amusement in his rankled tone. She settled back against him and let out a sigh. A truce then, and a welcome one.

A series of muffled giggles roused her from her sleep. Her cheek lay flat against Winn’s chest, her hand tucked in a fist beneath her chin, and she lifted a hand to swat at him when he plucked at her hair. It tickled, and she was not ready to wake yet. He persisted despite her attempt to smack him, and she opened her eyes to confront his intrusion of her sleep.

“Stop it!” she hissed. A pair of soft brown eyes stared back, attached to the biggest head she had ever seen on a newborn colt. He stood over her on long, but steady legs, chewing a piece of her auburn hair between his gums. A smile washed over her face as she stared at the colt in amazement. He was tall, with strong straight legs and a huge, mischievous face. She felt Winn sit up behind her with his arms loosely looped around her waist.

“Bad horse!” she laughed. “I think I’ll call you Blaze.” It seemed appropriate, considering the swash of white streaking his face from ears to nose. She could not tell what color his coat would be for sure, but she suspected it would be chestnut considering the shade of downy fur he was born with. She scratched him under his chin and he nickered softly. More giggles erupted, and Maggie glanced up at the commotion. Standing on the middle rail in a row were three children, two girls and a boy, watching them sleep in the horse pen. She moved to get up, but Winn held her in place.

“Stay,” he grinned. “Feed Blaze. I will return and feed you.”

Her eyes followed him. He made a harsh barking noise at the children, who merely laughed louder, and then he chased them away from the lean-to. He snatched a retreating boy by his breechcloth and knelt beside him, pointing to Maggie and the colt.

“Go fetch her some water, little warrior. You will make my Tentay teh happy.” The boy grinned, and Winn patted his shoulder, speaking into his ear. “A wise warrior makes a woman smile.”

Winn wished to ignore Makedewa as he made his way back to Maggie, but his brother was in a temper and refused to be put off. He paused when the warrior uttered a respectful, but curt, greeting, knowing it would be rude to ignore his brother in front of the other men. Winn shifted his sack of food to his shoulder and spread his legs slightly apart, crossing his arms as he waited to hear what Makedewa needed to say.

“What say you, brother?”

“Brother?” Makedewa sneered. He lifted his chin in the direction of the lean-to and flung out a hand to point toward Maggie and the colt. “You fail to kill the Red Woman, then you keep her! You give her your yehakin and sleep alone in the Great Long House? What is this?”

“I found her. She is mine for what I please. It is no matter to you, I have told you this!” Winn straightened up to his full height and his eyes narrowed as his brother continued to rant.

“True, you found the Red Woman. So she is your prisoner. Why does she walk free in our village? You let Chetan give her a knife!”

Chetan moved to stand between the two warriors.

“I gave her the knife for her kindness. And for her protection,” Chetan growled. “If you try to kill her, I hope she stabs your black heart!” he snapped at Winn, then turned to Makedewa. “And yours, too!”

“You both have no voice in this. I captured her. She is nothing more than a slave. I will speak on it no more,” Winn snapped. He could not believe his brothers. He expected as much from Makedewa, and knew the hot-tempered warrior was angered the woman still lived. But Chetan? Giving the woman a knife as a weapon, a knife to stab him with? He suspected as much when his brother presented the gift, but he had been too pleased with the way Maggie smiled at him to question it further. Curse them, and curse the Great Creator, the woman had him scraping for her affections like a wounded puppy!

Maybe there was some truth to Makedewa’s words.

“We leave to hunt. Get your ponies, and tell your women,” Winn ordered, his voice calming to a lower octave. He put his hand on Chetan’s shoulder before his brother could follow Makedewa. “Tell Teyas to tend to …my captive. I will not see her again before we leave.”

Chetan shrugged off his hand and stalked away. As Winn heard the muttered curse his brother uttered he closed his fingers into a fist. He deserved Chetan’s curses, and they both knew it.

The hunt was a successful one, and Winn was glad to be headed back to the village after two grueling days of chasing game. What once might have been a half day hunt, or at most, a full day, had become much longer, and it took many more men now to take down enough game to feed their families.

He wondered if it was time to scout for a new spring settlement, a place where they could find more plentiful game and spend more time on their other duties, but they had used their current land since Winn was a boy of ten summers and he was reluctant to make such a change. Furthermore, Winn was only War Chief to his tribe, nothing more, so any such move would need permission of the Council and his uncle, the Weroance Opechancanough. He had led the remnants of the Paspahegh tribe since his uncle appointed him War Chief, but he knew Opechancanough would not approve any change until his plan to drive the whites from their land was fulfilled. Until then, the few Paspahegh people left were trapped living on land that was nearly depleted of resources. All were bound by the Weroance to remain friendly and accommodating to the whites to gain their trust.

He gave a curt nod to Chetan as his brother rode up beside him. The man was shorter in stature, but still not a warrior to have as an enemy, and Winn was glad to have loyalty from such a man. Wide and muscular, he was a fierce fighter who showed no fear of any threat. Since his wife had died last summer, Chetan spoke less and smiled even rarer, so Winn was surprised to see his brother with a secret grin as they approached the village.

“What is so amusing, brother?” Winn finally asked as the other man continued to smirk.

“Well, I look forward to our return home. The men speak of what women to take to furs.”

“So what?” Winn snapped, not intending to sound so irritated.

“If you do not take your slave to furs, I will take her. I like her red hair and pretty pale skin.”

Winn felt his teeth snap together so forcefully he feared he cracked his jaw.

“I am not ready to share my slave,” he growled, incensed at the rage building in his blood. How dare his favorite brother presume to share his captive?

Chetan lifted one corner of his mouth in a wry smile.

“Then claim her yourself.”

“Why do you test me, Chetan?”

Winn gripped his reins tighter and felt his fingers dig into his palms, trying to contain the urge to reach over and grab his brother by the throat as the man continued to grin and shake his head.

“If you do not claim her, another man will challenge you. Then I must challenge him, and I do not wish to fight. But if I must save my stupid brother from himself, I will.”

Chetan smacked Winn’s thigh with the long end of his reins, leaving a welt across his skin and a scowl on his lips. Winn looked straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the taunt.

“Any man who tries to take what is mine will die a quick death.”

“Then stop being a fool. Or I will take her from you and die smiling for it.”

Chetan smirked, smacked Winn again with the rawhide rein, and took off in a gallop. The village was ahead up in sight, and the warriors began to whoop and holler in greeting. His blood began to simmer at the thought of their usual return from the hunt. It was common for the men to seek comfort after the task, and there were plenty of widows and wives who welcomed the attention. Winn found there was always a woman eager to warm him and he usually joined in the celebration. But now, as they approached the village and the warriors screamed their success, he felt a fire smoldering in his chest as he thought of the woman who waited in his yehakin.

She belonged to him by right, if not by prophecy, and he would be damned to let another challenge him.

Teyas bent over a large iron cauldron, nodding in approval at Chulensak Asuwak as she inhaled the steam from the stew. Thick with venison, it was a special mixture prepared with more meat than usual to celebrate the return of the hunting party. Maggie felt her stomach rumble in response when the heady scent drifted to her nostrils. Although they tended to her needs and appeared quite considerate, Maggie felt hungry often as she was not accustomed to the portions or food the Indians ate. She tried everything they offered, afraid to offend, but she still could not stomach some of the fare and had trouble eating enough to ease her hunger pangs.

Ahi Kekeleksu snuck up and snatched a piece of bread from the rations the women divided, and giggled when Maggie caught him by his elbow. She squeezed the child as he howled in mock disgust at her attention, then whispered a warning in his attentive ear.

“Don’t tell anyone I let you have that, you menace,” she laughed.

“No, Tentay teh, I will not!” he promised in his most fierce warrior pledge voice. She released him, and he sprinted back toward the corral. He was one of the children who watched the first feeding of the orphan colt, and in the days since the warriors had been away hunting, he became a shadow to Maggie. Teyas explained he was Chetan’s young son, and had lost his mother only the summer prior. Maggie took an immediate liking to the child, and was pleased to cultivate his interest in the colt by showing him how to feed and care for the orphan.

Maggie watched from afar as the child leaned over the fence with the offering. The colt trotted over, taking the bread from his flattened palm with gentle bites.

“The stew will cook longer. We can change your bandage now, sister.” Teyas handed Maggie a bundle of rolled cloths they would use to dress her wound. The scratches were healing and the site remained sore, but so far free from signs of infection. Skilled at healing, Teyas tended the villagers with remedies made from herbs and roots, a craft she explained was handed down from elder women of the tribe. Maggie did not know what Teyas applied to her wound, but she was grateful for her care since she knew the alternative was likely death from infection.

Teyas served as her constant companion while the men hunted, leaving her no opportunity to escape the confines of the village. Maggie searched the yehakin thoroughly without success the first night Winn was gone, and with no idea where else he may have hidden her Bloodstone, she felt even more hopeless as the days wore on.

Maggie glanced up at Teyas and smiled. She took the proffered bundle and tucked it under her good arm. As Teyas bent to throw more wood on the fire for the stew, a group of riders entered the village.

Greased with paint but otherwise undecorated, the warriors looked surprisingly fresh after their two day hunt, especially considering the large amount of game they dragged on a sled behind one of the horses. Amid the impatient snorting and stomping, the warriors handed the animals off to younger boys to be tended while they allowed the women to fuss over them. Maggie watched the scene from across the village yard as women flocked to the warriors in welcome. She spotted Winn among them, aware that the breath left her body in a relieved sigh with the knowledge he returned safe. His eyes met hers through the crowd and she saw his lips curl up as he nodded to her in acknowledgement.

“Good, the men have returned,” Teyas said. Maggie nodded absently, and Teyas prodded her with a wooden spoon. “He will come for you, just wait,” she teased.

Maggie frowned and shook her head. “I don’t care what he does. I’m just glad he’s not dead, that’s all.” She felt hurt by the way he left so abruptly, not even wishing her goodbye, but she would not show the arrogant man how he wounded her.

Teyas giggled. Maggie kept her head down to shield her flushed cheeks, but she could still see the group of warriors surrounded by the women. One young beauty threw her arms around Winn and proceeded to kiss him, and Maggie watched as he turned his head from the kiss but picked up the woman and swung her around, laughing at her squeal. Another warrior plucked her from Winn’s arms, but two more women blocked his exit with eager embraces. He wore a frustrated smile as he met her eyes again, but this time Maggie looked away. He could have his half-naked women, it was no matter to her. She only needed Winn to return to her own time, nothing more.

“Such a stupid man,” she mumbled, much to the amusement of Teyas.

“You should tell him that, Maggie,” she laughed.

Maggie sent a scathing glare in her direction just in time to see the glistening warrior swoop in and yank her off her feet. His skin was slick and hot as she squirmed against him, letting out a shriek of surprise at his ardent enthusiasm. Cradled in his arms like a child, her chest heaved with uneven breaths to match his own. His eyes squinted against the sun and a boyish grin graced his face.

“Tell me what, Tentay teh?” he demanded as he swung her in a circle. She could not help but laugh as he twirled, then pretended to drop her only to catch her before she hit the ground, causing her stomach to do back flips as she giggled along with him.

“She says you are a stupid man, Winkeohkwet,” Teyas offered. Maggie stiffened, afraid Winn would be angry. His laughter slowed and he gripped Maggie tighter in his arms. She felt his muscles tense as she placed her palm to his chest in attempt to steady her breathing.

“Ah, well, we will see,” he replied. He raised one eyebrow at Teyas, and then turned abruptly to stalk away with Maggie still in his arms.

“Winn, that’s enough, put me down!” she said, eliciting only a chuckle from him.

“Only I give orders in this village, woman.”

“Stop calling me that! And put me down!” she shot back. His grin remained.

“You want me to put you down?”

“Yes!”

He smirked and released his hold, and she closed her eyes to prepare for hitting hard ground. Instead she splashed into the shallow creek bed, going under and immediately surging to the surface, spitting up water. He stood waist deep beside her, roaring with laughter as she sputtered.

Maggie regained her footing, and as he continued to laugh, she launched herself at him, tackling him into the water. She was glad the attack caught him by surprise, giving her the upper hand for a split second before he grabbed her in a bear hug and drew them both beneath the water again, bringing them to the surface when she thought her lungs might explode.

He easily deflected her blows as he laughed, finally stopping her onslaught by wrapping her in his arms. Soaked through and shaking, uncertain if anger or amusement drove her, she relaxed her fists. She uttered a half-laugh, half-choke and clutched his shoulders to keep her footing. The creek bed sand shifted easily beneath their feet, and he repositioned to a wider stance yet continued to hold her. His laughter eased when their eyes met. His clear, sparkling blue eyes reflected humor, which she could see rapidly changing into something more. She swallowed back her own unwelcome response, confused by the way his gaze sent a tingling down her spine.

“Have I silenced you yet, Tentay teh?” he asked, his voice low and throaty. She meant to look away and laugh, but she only managed to shake her head. He called her Tentay the often, and although she did not know the meaning, it sounded nice enough, so she did not mind.

“No. You can’t make me stop talking,” she whispered.

She regretted the words immediately, for she saw his eyes widen in surprise and a wicked grin creased his face.

“I must try harder, then,” he answered. Before she could object, his mouth closed gently over hers and then curled into a smile.

“See? I can make you stop talking,” he breathed against her mouth.

Still shaking, her eyes flew open and she yanked away, her cheeks burning. She tried to turn away to escape to the bank, but he held her tight, shaking his head. He glanced briefly over her shoulder, and then his eyes returned to capture hers.

“You’re a pig!” she whispered.

“Perhaps. But my men watch, and I would not have them question what is mine.” She shivered when she looked toward the bank and saw he told the truth. Several of the warriors stood nearby with the women, talking and laughing as they watched the spectacle in the creek.

“I don’t belong to you,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

He paused before he answered, his eyes glancing at the warriors and then back to her. She tensed when his palm tightened on her waist and he pulled her closer as if to solidify his message.

“Stop that!” she hissed.

He spoke again, low and firm, his lips so close to her own shaking ones.

“Why do you defy me? Do women in your world speak to men this way, or is it just you?”

The sincere question caused a surge of despair to swell, which overflowed to darken her gaze before she could stem it. The utter reality of her situation had been easy to put off for the last few days as she spent time with Teyas, but now that Winn stood in front of her making demands, it all rushed back. She was far from home and had no idea how to return – or if return was even possible.

“Women of my time take care of themselves. We don’t have men telling us what to do all the time. We call men like you chauvinist pigs,” she whispered. His eyes narrowed into slits.

“My men watch, Tentay teh. When they watch, you must…obey.”

She scowled and opened her mouth to protest, but this time he covered it with his hand.

“When they watch, you obey,” he repeated, slower this time. When she finally gave in and nodded, he let his hand drop from her mouth. “It is the way of this time, and my right as your captor.”

“Am I a prisoner?” she whispered.

“I found you. It is my right to keep you as a slave if I choose. Or I may give you away to one of my men, if you do not please me.” He held her face with his hands so she could not look away. “Do you understand?”

She did not answer, but held his gaze.

“The men choose women to share their furs after the hunt. It is what we do when we return. I would keep you with me now.”

“And if I run?”

“Do not run.”

She followed his logic and could make no response. She thought her silence would pacify him, but it only seemed to agitate him further. He carried her from the creek then, passing the group of warriors with a nod and making his way back to his yehakin.

A fire in the hearth greeted them, and Maggie’s bundle of bandages lay next to the fur-sleeping mat. She reached for the bundle, knowing her dressing needed to be changed and the wound cleaned, but afraid to make her request known to Winn. The man was frustrating beyond measure, and she had no idea why he fascinated her so much. Why on Earth had she let him kiss her? Had time travel warped her brain?

She peered at him from the corner of her eye as she pretended to study the bandages. His confidence alone was enough to send even a modern woman into a swoon. Tight sinews flexed in his limbs as he bent to remove his leggings, then stood and dropped his wet breechcloth to the floor. She glimpsed a dark winding tattoo from one hip to his tapered navel, and gritted her teeth as she quickly turned her back, noting that his flaming eyes met her own before she cowered.

Damn him, she seethed.

She sat down with her back to him and began to unroll the bandages, the motion echoing the unraveling of her senses. What did he plan to do with her?

She stiffened and closed her eyes when he placed a hand on her shoulder from behind, the scent of evergreen and sweat that was distinctly him invading her senses. The truth of her situation hit her like a bolt through the gut. She was trapped in the past and her very survival depended on his mercy.

His fingers kneaded her shoulders, and she bit back a harsh retort as his fingertips brushed over her skin. When he untied the laces of her dress from her nape, she stubbornly held the dress up with her fists pressed into her chest to keep it from falling away. She would not let him continue without a fight.

“I will fight you,” she whispered. His fingers paused the gentle massage for a moment at her words, then resumed a lazy rhythm. She remained there unmoving, knowing she could not outrun him, but sure that she could at least hurt him in some way.

“Be still. That is an order.” She felt his breath hot against her neck and the command chilled her, but she obeyed it as she awaited his next move. He tugged at the binding of her wound dressing and she felt it unravel.

“I can’t,” she replied as tremors shook her body.

He removed the remnants of the dressing and a moment later a warm gush of water flowed over her wound. Winn repeated the process several more times before he was satisfied, and then gently patted the wound with a clean cloth. Maggie held her breath as he reached around her for the bowl of healing salve and then smeared it over the wound. What game was he playing? She felt like a toy, twirling aimlessly at his mercy. Motionless and silent, she waited as he replaced the bandage with a fresh one and secured it around the sensitive skin of her shoulder.

Maggie did not expect the pile of clothes that landed in her lap, and she startled at the quick motion. A soft, dry white doeskin dress lay across her legs, along with a pair of small white moccasins, decorated with a delicate pattern of red and black beads. She slowly turned to look at him and was surprised to find him standing near the fire, a frown on his lips and his blazing blue eyes fastened on her.

“Change your wet clothes. Then we will eat.”

She held her wet dress up with one hand and clutched the new one with the other.

“I – I’ll change when you leave.”

He closed the distance between them in three strides, snatching a fur from the bed and wrapping it around her shoulders like a cloak. He grabbed the white dress from her. She noticed his hands were clenched, and she could see he struggled to contain his ire.

“Change now, woman,” he growled. “Or I will do it for you.”

She returned his challenge by glaring back into his seething blue eyes, then snatched the dress from his hand and turned her back to him. She heard him stalk away, but even knowing he was across the room still sent shivers down her spine as she let her wet dress fall to the floor. She managed to keep the fur wrapped around her as she stepped into the dry dress, but waited to face him again.

She felt the flush of her skin and hated herself for her weakness. Naked skin was nothing special to the Indians, she knew from her observations over the last few days. Women went topless more often than not, or had a flimsy fur shawl wrapped around their shoulders to cover bare breasts. Maggie was grateful for the modest dresses Teyas gave her, but she was aware that she was much more covered than any of the other young women. She struggled to be so confident, as Winn obviously expected, but she failed miserably.

Maggie sat down across from Winn at the fire, keeping the thick fur around her shoulders as they ate. He took a few bits of food from each bowl and passed it to her, keeping his eyes on hers as he slowly chewed.

“Your wound looks like it heals. You are lucky.”

She refused to meet his eyes as she ate and nodded in response.

“Thank you…for helping me. I can’t reach it very well on my own,” she murmured.

He rested one hand on a bent knee and lay back onto an elbow, studying her as she finished her meal. She stole a glance at him over the rim of her cup as she drank, seeing a bemused tilt of his head and a furrowed brow which seemed distinctly non-threatening.

“Women of your time, they have no need of men?” he asked. He twirled a piece of straw in his fingers as he waited for her response.

“Women take care of themselves is all I meant. They don’t need a man to tell them what to do, or to look after them.” She took another sip from the cup and watched as he struggled to find his words.

“No husbands? The men must be weak to let women behave that way,” he declared, tossing the straw into the fire. She smiled despite herself.

“We still like men, and women do marry. But it’s not necessary to have a husband, it’s just… nice.“

“And you? Did you leave a man in your time?”

“Yes,” she said, although she believed she would regret baiting him in such a way when she saw his jaw clench. “My grandfather. I feel like I left him. He died last month, and I’m not there now to put flowers on his grave…or to take care of the farm. But a boyfriend? No, there is no one.”

His tense demeanor relaxed at her explanation, and he met her tentative smile with a wry smile of his own across the blazing fire. Good thing she had not mentioned Marcus. Although the thought made her smile, the ache of missing her home felt heavy in her chest. The orange flames cracked and spit when he tossed in a loose stick, and she wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked back. She rested her chin on her locked hands and stared into the fire, remembering the way it felt when she grabbed the Bloodstone and the sun engulfed her being. She wanted to ask him where the stone was, but feared to damage the uneasy peace between them.

“It is strange for me to talk so much to a woman,” he admitted. Now it was her turn to laugh, and she scoffed at his admission.

“Oh, is that so? If you were in my time, I would never give you the time of day with that attitude,” she retorted. Her confidence grew as their exchange remained playful, but she knew she tread a thin line with his ancient ego.

“Humph,” he snorted. “Maybe so, Tentay teh. But here,” he said, pointing to the ground he sat on, “here women obey their men, and wait to be spoken to. My men see you defy my words, and they ask why I did not punish you,” he said quietly. Maggie stopped rocking, aware the conversation had taken a turn. She pushed a loose strand of hair back behind her ear and noticed her hand trembled. Damn the man and his veiled threats!

“I thought I was being punished. You keep me here like a prisoner,” she whispered.

“Pishi, I do keep you, it is my right. Not as a prisoner. If that was so, I would have cut out your tongue days ago.”

She said nothing as he sat up, his face shrouded now in an unreadable mask as he stared at her across the fire. A not-so-veiled threat? She liked it even less.

“In this time my warriors follow me without question. They wait even now for my command. If I ask them to leave their women, they do so. And their women honor them as they go.” His voice dipped as he stared into the heart of the fire. “Warriors do not answer to women. I will not answer to you out there,” he pointed toward the door where they could see members of the village taking a meal by a large central fire. “Here, in my yehakin, I will hear you. You can call me… show-vist pig…and I will hear you.”

Maggie stifled a hysterical laugh at his attempt to placate her as she bit back her despair. Winn was clearly throwing down the gauntlet, and her life was held in the balance. She would obey him without question, or she would be punished as women of this time were punished. He understood her own time was very different, so he was giving her a way to talk to him without damaging his authority with the tribe. She wished she could feel more grateful, but the only emotion she could summon was frustrating defeat. She was trapped, not only in his time, but also in his yehakin, to be punished at his discretion.

She would play by his rules, but only until she discovered a way back home. She refused to admit she had little choice, deciding instead to fool him into trusting her. It was the only way to get what she wanted.

“Chauvinist. You’re a chauvinist pig,” she said softly, enunciating the syllables.

“Pishi,” he nodded. “And you may keep your tongue.”

He rose from his spot and approached. Her eyes never wavered from his, glaring in muted defiance when he gently pulled her to her feet. He led her to the sleeping mat, and with a few careful tucks, he nested the furs around her, and she closed her eyes.

When she dared to open them again, she saw him across the fire. He lay on his side, head on his forearm, his eyes closed in sleep.

A stream of morning sunlight warmed her face when she woke to find the yehakin empty. She should be glad the heathen left her alone, but a nagging voice in her ear wondered when she would see him again, or if he would return soon to continue ordering her about like she was his personal property. Well, he could stay away all day for all she cared. She was not thrilled with the prospect of deceiving him to get the Bloodstone back, but it was the only chance she had.

Her bladder felt near bursting, so she stopped off in the bushes to relieve herself before she made her way to the lean-to. She could take care of Blaze, and maybe come up with a few ideas of where Winn hid the Bloodstone. He had few personal belongings, and she had already searched them thoroughly, so she was certain the stone was not in his yehakin.

She grimaced at her toileting options, leaves or more leaves, and hurriedly completed the task before anyone noticed she was gone. It was bad enough walking around with no undergarments, but to have been observed during such a personal act would be humiliating. She never thought herself a shrew in her own time, yet among the women of the village, she was most assuredly the strange one. Maggie insisted on covering herself, unwilling to wear the skirts the others wore with only a mantle loosely covering their upper bodies, her modesty a well-ingrained trait she was unable to change even if it meant fitting in. Teyas understood, and Maggie felt lucky to have her as a tentative ally. The younger woman took to wearing a full dress very similar to the ones she gave Maggie, as if she gave her silent support by emulation. Maggie was glad for any camaraderie she could get.

Chetan was preparing to mount his Spanish pony when Maggie arrived. Makedewa was already astride, his horse pawing impatiently at the dirt as they waited for the other warrior. She was unsure if she should approach Chetan, but when a warm smile creased his face, she decided it was safe enough and continued.

“Red Woman,” he nodded. “Your Blaze grows well, I think he will be a great stallion someday.”

They turned to watch the colt, who perked up his ears and issued a shrill whinny at the sight of her. Chetan chuckled and Maggie reached in the fold of her waistband to find a sliver of apple she brought for him, reaching over the rail with the flat of her palm in offering. The colt quickly slurped up the fruit, leaving a slimy mess on her palm, which she rubbed off on the edge of her dress. Chetan watched the exchange, but his smile faded as he took her hand in his own.

Startled by the contact, but unafraid, she watched as he slowly turned her hand over to stare at her scarred palm. It was the hand that she held the Bloodstone in, and it was creased with a healing silver scar, a heart shaped knot that looked strangely organized as if it was a brand.

“Ah, you have been marked. I see now,” he said softly, as if to himself.

“What do you mean, marked?”

“The Bloodstone. It marked you, so you must truly be from another time. A woman Time Walker,” he muttered as he shook his head, his round cheeks now more serene than smiling. “Is it a peaceful place, this time you come from?”

“It is very different,” she offered. “Peaceful enough.” Thoughts of the life she was torn away from were like lead in her throat, and she shook her head against the tears that threatened. “I miss it very much,” she admitted. He ducked his head, squinted his eyes, and uttered a nervous cough to clear his throat.

“Maybe you are here because you should be. I think if you open your eyes, you will find happiness here with our people.”

She did not answer him, unwilling to argue when he was trying to be kind, so she shrugged her shoulders in response as she remained silent.

“Winn buried the Bloodstones to keep you away, but still you are here. He thought never to disobey our uncle. He was sure he would kill the Red Woman if ever she arrived.”

“Everyone would be happier if he just let me go home.”

Chetan smiled, shaking his bowed head.

“No, I think not. Not my brother, and not you. I hear your words, but I see your heart. You were meant for this place, Fire Heart.”

A protest formed on her lips, but she did not voice it. There was no argument she could make against such magical things.

“Do you ride horses as well as you care for them?” he asked. She raised her eyebrows at his words.

“Well, yes, yes I do. I’m a good rider.”

“Then come with me. I go to scout our border.”

She glanced around him at Makedewa, who she could tell was listening but held his tongue. What harm would it do to take a ride? She was tired of being treated like a prisoner, as if she had no more value than an ear of corn, so perhaps a ride would ease her anxiety for a few hours.

“All right, I would like that. But will Winn be upset if I leave?”

Chetan made a deep snorting sound. “Upset? Yes, he will be. My brother is War Chief, but I am still a man. If you want to ride, you can come with me.”

She grinned like a schoolgirl playing hooky when he slung a hackamore style bridle on a spotted pony and gave her a leg up. She was unaccustomed to riding bareback, a pursuit she left behind in adolescence, but she was eager to leave the village for a while and would have submitted to anything to do so. The animal was plump with a thick stout neck, making for a more comfortable ride than a lean horse, and she settled quickly into the motion of keeping her seat with her thigh muscles as they left the village.

They passed by the Great Long House and entered the woods, keeping to a narrow dirt trail winding through the evergreens. There was a gentle cool breeze in the shelter of the trees, and as it lifted her hair from the nape of her neck, she raised her hands high and stretched. Although her healing shoulder ached, it still felt wonderful, and as her chest expanded, the heady scent of the forest filled her lungs. Rocking with the motion of the horse, she let out a deep sigh and replaced her hands back down to rest on her bared thighs. She had never ridden bareback dressed so scantily, but the exhilaration of freedom squashed any doubts she might have had.

Chetan watched her and smiled as she stretched, and she heard an annoyed grunt from Makedewa, which she ignored. They clicked their tongues and urged their mounts into a faster pace, and she squeezed her knees to press her fat pony into an easy lope to keep up. She wondered why they suddenly changed speed, and was dismayed to hear another rider approaching. The men seemed unconcerned so she knew they were safe, but she hoped it was not someone who would object to her presence.

“Did you hear me shout, Chetan?” Winn growled as his pony caught up to them. The horses all slowed to a brisk walk, and Winn continued to rail at Chetan, who slowed his horse as he shrugged his shoulders in amused indifference.

“No, brother, I heard you not. I was too busy enjoying the view.”

Maggie turned backward on her pony to look at the two men. Although Makedewa rode off ahead, she was clear on what Chetan implied and she twisted back around before she was tempted to yell at him.

She ignored the brothers as they argued in their own language, and continued on to follow Makedewa, who had pulled ahead quite a bit. Her pony navigated a narrow sandy trail that opened up from the woods onto a wide beach, stretching as far as she could see in both directions. When Makedewa took off, she felt a surge of excitement seeing him gallop away, and before she could contain the urge she tapped her heels against her pony and took off after him. She wound her fingers through her pony’s mane and ducked her head against his neck, feeling sand spike up to dart her face like tiny needles as the sound of the surf muffled her peals of laughter. Saltwater splashed out like a wake around them, and seagulls screamed their displeasure at the intrusion as they conquered the beach. Her pony was not as fast, but he had plenty of heart, and it was not long before he was beside Makedewa’s mount, their hooves pounding in near sync across the sand. Makedewa’s eyes opened wide when he saw her, and although he did not smile, he did not scowl either, so she figured he was not too annoyed that she had followed him.

His pony slid to a stop, and hers responded the same, circling Makedewa a few times before the little beast was ready to cease pursuit. Nostrils flaring, his lips lathered, the pony snorted and stomped, and she patted him firmly on the neck to calm him. She could see Chetan and Winn riding toward them, and when she glanced back at Makedewa, she thought she glimpsed a smidgeon of a grin.

“You ride well, woman,” he said gruffly without making eye contact.

“You ride okay yourself,” she replied. His jaw was tight as he shook his head, turning his horse in a circle around her.

“I think you are much trouble for my brother.”

“I don’t want to be trouble for anyone. I just want to go home.”

He made one of those half-laugh, half-snort sounds the Indian men were known to utter when they had nothing nice to say, then reached out and slapped her pony on the rump. The horse jumped but did not take off, instead succumbing to being rounded up and sent back in the direction of Chetan and Winn. Makedewa dismounted. He pulled a spear off his back as the other men caught up with them.

“Good ride, Maggie,” Chetan grinned. She smiled back, despite the look of gloom on Winn’s face.

“Thanks. It’s beautiful here,” she breathed, looking out toward the ocean. Low waves rolled in, crashing against the reefs to break their splendor before they rushed back toward the shore, creating a haphazard foam barrier along the sand. The water was a deep blue, brighter and clearer than any shore she had ever seen, and she recalled with sadness how sickly beaches of the future looked in comparison.

“Yes…beautiful,” Chetan laughed. Maggie saw him shoot Winn a sly look, and then Chetan dismounted to follow Makedewa. She watched them stalk a shallow tide pool, thrusting their spears in to snare the fish trapped in the barrier. Winn’s pony bumped into her own.

“Come on. We will ride some more,” he offered, his voice controlled with the invitation. His blue eyes seemed cautious, betraying a glimpse of uncertainty, or perhaps bashfulness, both of which perplexed her when she was accustomed to a much different temperament.

“All right,” she agreed. Their ponies walked off together so closely that her bare knee bumped against his with each stride, a constant tap to remind her he was still there. Although his shoulders pointed straight ahead, his dark head tilted toward her a bit and his braid fell across his arm, as if his words were meant to be some sort of secret between them.

“Chetan takes notice of you.”

“Oh?”

“As do many of my people. Teyas sees you as a sister.” His startling blue eyes met hers and held, and she could feel a stirring in her belly as he kept her gaze. He turned away abruptly and looked down at his hands for a moment before he adjusted his rein, then turned his head forward. “You look happy here today. Is your world so different than mine, Tentay teh?”

Maggie considered the question for a moment before she responded. Yes, her world was much different in many ways, but how could she make him understand? Loyalty, dedication, a home – they were all things that drove her to find a way back, yet with each passing day in the past, another sliver of her resolve flaked off and dissolved. Looking at his profile, seeing his jaw set against his teeth and his almond shaped blue eyes squinting against the sun, she wished they could just keep riding and somehow their peace could continue.

“Some things are very different. We don’t ride horses anymore, that is, most people don’t.”

“So they travel by water instead? As we do with our boats?”

“Well, we have these…wagons. Wagons that drive without a horse. There’s an engine to make it move.”

She could see his face relax and his smile turned genuine as she described cars to him. He snorted when she told him they ran on gasoline, a fossil fuel, and he laughed when she explained how people bought expensive cars to impress each other. Her tales of the future clearly intrigued him, however, and she prattled on with descriptions of indoor plumbing and spring-coiled mattresses.

“Is it from the English that all these things come?” he asked.

“Uhm, I guess. Mostly. But there will be many different kinds of people to come live here in the future, not just the English.”

She saw how his smile faded and his eyes dimmed as he considered her response, and she suddenly had a feeling her words meant more to him. He reached out with a fist and grabbed her rein, stopping her mount beside his.

“So where will my people go, when so many whites come? Already our lands are used up, and many of our people forced to move. Even now the Paspahegh are few. What will happen to the Powhatan? When does it happen?”

Her teeth closed over her lower lip, and she pushed a strand of wayward hair back behind one ear. Should she tell him the truth of what was bound to happen, or was this knowledge of the future too much for him to handle? She still was not sure of her role in this time travel business, but with the turn their conversation took she suddenly feared what impact her actions could have. Would changing the past in turn change the future? And was it up to her to do so?

“Winn, I don’t think –”

“Tell me,” he insisted, his voice betraying that he expected the worst. She sighed with the knowledge that he would not relent without the truth, and tried to find the words to describe the end of the life he knew.

“I’m sorry…” she began. He listened without interruption, and when she finished the tale he remained wordless. His clear blue eyes exposed his despair, the azure depths reduced to empty hollows as the impact hit him. He appeared to pale beneath his dark skin, even the tips of his ears and his soft full lips drained of color. They rode in silence together, her heel tapping gently against his foot with each stride of her pony, until they joined his brothers again.

Makedewa kneeled over a small fire in a shallow pit in the sand, laying several fish pierced on stakes across the piles of rocks he lined the fire with. The fish hung suspended above the licking flames, the searing scent of their flesh cooking rising from the smoke. Chetan walked back from the surf, a wide grin across his round face as he held a snapping crab in his upraised hand. He took a proffered stick from Makedewa and speared it through, then tossed it on the fire with the fish, and her belly made a growling sound at the scent of fresh charred seafood as the food began to roast.

“Uhm, I’ll be right back,” she said. Winn raised an eyebrow as she dismounted. “I just need a minute to myself,” she stammered. She had no idea what words to use to explain that she needed to void, so she was relieved when Winn seemed to understand and made no protest. He pointed over to the trees where they had entered the beach, and she gladly took his direction.

She wished she had even a smidgeon of the confidence the Indian women had, and she was deftly reminded of her more modest nature every time she needed to relieve herself. She walked further back in the woods than was truly necessary for privacy, and when she was content she was adequately hidden, she squatted down and raised her dress.

“Akekweh!”

Maggie shot to her feet at the angry utterance and swung around to holler at whichever man had followed her, her face streaked with crimson at being interrupted. When she did not recognize the intruder, she let the leaves she had gathered fall from her hand and stepped back a pace.

Not just one, but two natives approached. The nearest one spoke to her again, his words a slower but much different cadence of the Paspahegh speech she had grown accustomed to, and he stepped boldly toward her when she did not answer.

“I don’t understand,” she said, feeling her heart start to pound in her ears. Already backed up to a thick grove of narrow young saplings, she had chosen the place for its natural screen, unaware it would become a prison in a few short moments.

The man continued his approach. Tall and lean, his chest heavily scarred and his eyes hollow beneath hooded brows, his black hair was shaved completely except for a section of long braid trailing from the top of his head down his back. Both men wore only breechcloths, and their skin was stained with black slashes of paint and an array of intricate tattoos. She held her breath as the first man reached out to her, taking a strand of her red hair in his hand. He peered at it for a moment, and then a grin spread slowly over his face when he looked up at her.

“What?” she croaked. His smile was not comforting, only serving to show her the gap where his lower tooth should be, and with his close proximity, the stale stench of his breath. He ran one finger across the black grease pattern on his chest, then reached out and rubbed the fingertip across her forehead, leaving a dark smudge on her pale skin. Stunned, she let out her breath. Perhaps it was a friendly gesture, and he would be on his way.

The men spoke amongst themselves, and then the first one turned swiftly back to her and grabbed her wrist, towing her with him as they went back the way they had arrived. She let out a screech and tried to pull away from him to no avail, and he grunted but otherwise ignored her as he dragged her along.

“No! Let me go!” she screamed. She dug her heels into the ground until he was forced to stop, at which point he turned back to her with a knife brandished. She froze when he held the blade under her chin and grunted something she did not understand, then proceeded to continue dragging her away.

“Nahkihela!”

The native stopped so fast that she stumbled into his backside, and relief washed through her when she realized the new voice belonged to Winn.

Great, she thought. Winn would clear up the little misunderstanding and they could go back to the beach peacefully to eat their fish.

She tried to shake off the hand that held her, but it remained locked like binding around her wrist.

Winn made no eye contact with her as he confronted the man, but the muscles in his neck were taut like bowstrings as he approached. The second man swung around to flank him, leaving Winn surrounded as he spoke in rapid Paspahegh to the intruders.

Something Winn said suddenly angered the man, and he snatched her forward and thrust the knife beneath her chin as Winn stepped toward him. At the sight of the knife and her gasp of surprise Winn immediately stopped, his feet planted shoulder stance apart, crouched slightly, his breathing slow and cautious.

“Winn?” she whispered. His eyes met hers, and she shuddered to see the flare of anger held back within as he remained poised to strike. She made her decision, and after taking a deep breath in preparation, she raised her leg up and struck backward with all her might. Her heel made contact with one knee in a sickening snap, and in a blur of copper skin and limbs she was shoved away to fall on the sandy soil at their feet as the warriors crashed together.

She saw the second man move to enter the fray, and since she had nothing with which to fight, she grabbed a handful of sand and threw it at him. He blocked her attempt but it slowed him down enough for her to find a nearby rock, which she also threw at him to little effect. When he unsheathed his knife and approached the two men who fought, she let out a piercing scream. Winn had the other man beneath him on the ground, fully exposed to an assault from the second man.

“No!” she yelled. There was a sickening thump and suddenly the man slumped to the ground, an arrow protruding from his temple and his eyes staring blindly at the sky. Makedewa stepped through the bushes, his bow poised ready for a second shot, Chetan flanking his side.

She scrambled backward on her bottom away from the dead man and watched as the brothers simply surveyed Winn as he fought. It made no sense to her why they did not jump in to help him. Winn rolled the man onto his back, hitting the man with his bloodied closed fist, bone connecting bone with a sickening crunch. Winn shouted at the man, and the intruder seemed to smile through his missing teeth, and when Winn shook him he spit a mass of blood out that splattered Winn’s face and chest.

Winn raised his knife and thrust it deep into the side of the man’s neck. The intruder went limp, and Winn slowly stepped off the man. His chest heaved then as if he released his anger in one final breath, and when she met his eyes she saw the rabid fierceness slowly fade. He swiped the back of his arm across his face, then sheathed his knife before he approached where she still sat on the ground.

“Winn?”

He kneeled in front of her.

“Are you hurt?” he asked softly. She shook her head. She stayed motionless when he reached out for her forehead and his fingers rubbed the oily black smudge from her skin. His blue eyes burned like two slanted embers when he looked down at her, her heart beating like a jackrabbit trapped in a snare.

“You will never wear the mark of another warrior.”

The words were coarse and low from his lips, and in one motion he swept her up into his arms. She rode in his lap back to the village, her riderless pony trailing behind.

“Patawomecks. They were scouts,” Makedewa said. He inhaled smoke from the long bone pipe, passing it to Winn as he exhaled. They sat with the other men in the Long House, cross-legged on furs in a circle. There were few Paspahegh men left in the village, many eradicated by English raids or white man’s diseases, and of the forty odd men, only half were able-bodied enough to be considered warriors. Though only twenty strong, they were still fierce fighters and Winn was confident they could handle the threat from a few rogue Patawomecks.

“What reason do they have to spy on us? We leave their lands to them. We let them trade with the English as they please,” another warrior spoke. Pimtune, an older man, sat up and addressed the others. Born with a twisted upper lip, he looked as if he always smiled, even when he was clearly agitated.

“They do not join with Opechancanough. I hear they want no more war with the English. The man I killed said nothing before his death,” Winn said. His feet and hands felt heavy as he inhaled the sweet pipe smoke, the slow rush spreading a warmth through his essence as it cleared his troubled mind. He knew the Patawomeck opposed the upcoming attack on the English that his uncle had been planning for years. The Patawomeck had already refused to join the Powhatan and pledged they would remain neutral. Opechancanough had given up trying to ally with them as the time drew near, so this breach of territory worried Winn. There was no good reason for the Patawomeck to be in Powhatan territory, especially in the small Paspahegh lands.

“It is not usual for them to take English slaves, yet they tried to take the Red Woman,” Makedewa said. The other warriors looked up at the revelation. Pimtune creased his brows yet remained respectful as he glanced toward Winn. Winn passed the pipe to him, and did not look at Makedewa, unwilling to show his brother how much the statement bothered him.

“What say you, Winkeohkwet?” Pimtune asked.

Winn nodded. “Yes, the dog marked her. It was clear he meant to take her.”

Murmurs erupted among the men. A canopy of smoke hung over them, a wisp funneling up through the fire hole at the top of the Long House where the wind whipped above. Rumbles of an autumn storm shook the walls and the wind wailed outside. Winn wondered if Maggie was warm by the fire in his yehakin.

“We will send word to Opechancanough. He will want to hear of this.”

The men grunted in agreement with Winn and resumed passing the pipe amongst them.

She lay curled under several furs, chilled by the unseasonably cold winds and eager to warm her frozen fingers and toes. Darkness had fallen hours before, yet Winn had still not returned. She waited up as long as she could, trying to keep the fire burning and failing miserably, until finally she gave up and retired to her sleeping space. Her mind would not rest, however, even though the remainder of her body begged to succumb, fatigue not enough of a distraction to keep away visions of the dead warriors.

An arrow to the temple, quick and effective.

A blade jammed into the neck? Equally as efficient, yet somehow seeming much more brutal. She recalled his eyes when he did it, the frigid, focused stare, flaming with violence, intent on bloodshed. Yet Winn came to her afterward, the fire dimmed, his gaze anxious, his touch gentle and calming.

He had killed a man to protect her, taken a life as if it meant nothing. She could not grasp how such violence could be turned on, and then off, like a simple switch to be flipped at a whim. He could turn that on her at any moment, yet some tiny voice inside whispered he would never direct that hatred on her.

She heard the flap of the door covering and knew he returned. With her scattered thoughts still fresh, she did not immediately rise, instead keeping her eyes closed to mimic sleep. She was afraid to face him, wanting to thank him, but unsure if thanking him for killing a man was something appropriate to do.

“Tentay teh,” he said softly. Warmth rushed through her when she felt him sit down beside her. Although the furs separated them, she still felt his heat, and his closeness caused her throat to tighten and her palms to moisten as they lay curled under her chin. He ran his hand over her hair, drifting down her chin, then to her shoulder.

She swallowed back against her closed throat and opened her eyes. He seemed unsurprised she was awake. His nearness was disarming, so much so she sat up and put a bit of distance between them. She crossed her arms over her chest.

“I did not mean to wake you,” he said.

“It’s okay. I wanted to see you.” She bit her lower lip, the words seeming to come out in a disjointed mess instead of how she wanted them to. She held her breath as he reached over. He pulled a fur up over her shoulders and enclosed her in it, his fingers brushing her bared arms but nothing more.

“Oh? Why?” He sat back away from her, staring at her with his wide full mouth slightly parted, his blue eyes soft and serene.

“To thank you. For what you did,” she replied. He frowned and ducked his head a bit, then met her stare again. She hesitated to explain further, but made the attempt anyway. “Men don’t do things like that where I come from. Kill people, I mean. Not over a woman. Certainly not over me,” she stammered.

His gaze hardened, and she saw the skin across his abdomen crease as he held his breath. She was confused when he left her side and began adding kindling to the fire.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Men of your time,” he snapped. “Are they all such weaklings? Are there no warriors? I protect what is mine, Tentay teh. Until breath leaves my body, I will do so.”

Maggie sat back, stunned at his confession, unwilling to move a muscle before she could gather her senses to respond. He continued to toss wood to the flames.

“You think me savage, because men of your time spill no blood? I say your men know nothing of honor. Why do you want to return to such a time?”

“It’s where I belong, Winn,” she said softly.

“Je fais partie ou la lumiere me prend,” he murmured.

“Is that Paspahegh?”

“No. French words, from a book. It means ‘I belong where the light takes me’. Just as you do.”

“Who are you?” she asked, filled with wonder at each snippet of soul he revealed to her. She rose from the furs and approached him. “Where did you learn that? You speak so beautifully.”

His shoulders tensed, and she felt him stiffen when she slipped her hand into his.

“You think this savage knows nothing? I know many languages. I can read from your books. I am quite valuable to my Weroance.”

She placed her other hand softly on his chest and moved closer to him so he could not avoid her gaze. He looked angry, yet controlled, but she needed to ease the fire and staunch the distance between them.

“I meant no insult,” she said, trying to lighten his mood. “I was being nice.” He frowned.

“Nice? Humph,” he grunted.

“Here, sit. I have a gift for you,” she said softly. He let her pull him down next to the fire, where Teyas had left a few supplies for her. A clamshell that fit snug in her hand, a bowl of thick bear fat, and a soft deerskin to use as a towel. When Maggie asked her how to properly thank Winn for what he had done, Teyas assured her that shaving his scalp would show him just how grateful she was. She only hoped she could do it without hurting him.

“Maggie—”

“Please. Let me do this for you.”

When he watched her dip her hand in the grease, she saw his throat tighten. She kneeled in front of him, and while placing one hand on his shoulder to steady herself, she carefully smeared the grease on the crescent of short hairs over his right ear. His eyes followed her every movement.

“Be still,” she said. She took the sharp shell in the palm of her hand as Teyas instructed her, and slowly scraped it along his skin. She was pleased when the hair came cleanly away, leaving his bared scalp slick from the grease. His breath felt warm on her neck as she worked with her face close to his, going over the moon shaped patch to ensure it was smooth. As she leaned in to pat his skin dry, he turned his chin, a slight movement, yet enough for his lips to brush the side of her neck.

“Thank you for what you did today,” she said.

She touched his cheek softly with her closed lips, meaning to give him something to show her sincerity, but at the contact, he caught her face in his hands, moving his mouth to gently cover her lips. Sweet with brandy wine he kissed her, his palms cupped around her cheeks.

She felt him shudder, and her own hands shook as she placed them flat upon his chest. She meant to move closer, every ounce of her being drawn to him, but suddenly he broke the kiss, breathing heavily as he looked down at her. His gaze flickered down, as if it pained him to face her.

“Go,” he said, his voice hoarse, “take your rest. I will see you when the sun rises.”

She thought he would kiss her again, yet he did not. He left her there alone by the fire, wondering what exactly had just happened between them.

“Did you cut him?” Teyas asked.

Maggie shook her head.

“I did a pretty good job, if I may say so myself,” she replied. They worked together with the other village women, grounding Tuckahoe root into flour. Maggie would have liked to go out on the boats to retrieve it, but she was reluctant to make any suggestions since most of the women viewed her with suspicion. She imagined they wondered if she was a slave or a guest, and since she was hardly sure herself, she could see why they might be leery of her.

“Oh, good! He liked it, then?”

“Seemed so,” Maggie admitted. The memory of his kiss distracted her, and blood rushed to her cheeks as she dropped her wooden mortar. Teyas giggled.

“Is that so? My brother makes you clumsy. Maybe you should do more wife duties!” the girl laughed. Maggie stiffened and turned on her.

“What are you talking about? Wife duties?” she asked. No, surely Teyas would not be so sneaky! Maggie was fully aware it would take years for her to grasp the extent of the Paspahegh customs. Simple things she saw no meaning in were chock-full of implication in their world, so much so that she was afraid to make any move without prior instruction. When Teyas suggested she shave his scalp as a show of thanks, Maggie suspected nothing of it.

“When a woman shaves a man, she tells him she accepts his courting. Do not worry, Maggie, it is the proper way to show love.”

“Wait a second!” Maggie sputtered. “I only wanted to thank him! I don’t love him!” she hissed. Teyas grinned.

“Ah, thanks…love? The same,” she laughed. Teyas continued with her grinding, and the women around them broke out in song, perhaps as a way to muffle the strange strangled sounds Maggie was making. Teyas nudged her with her foot, flashing a faux chagrined smile.

“Not funny, Teyas,” she seethed. “Not funny at all.”

Some of the other women chuckled, and Maggie clamped her mouth shut.

The celebration feast lasted three days. Maggie felt her body ache as she helped Teyas raise the large chunks of venison onto stakes for preparation. It surprised her to feel so fatigued from the daily chores the rest of the women churned through so easily, but she imagined her fitness level would catch up soon. Determined to perform her share, she trudged on, but she still looked forward to dusk when everyone slowed down. Then she could spend some time with Blaze. Although she instructed the children how to care for the growing colt, she enjoyed working with the animal and found it a distraction from reality. The best part of the day was also unfortunately the most uncomfortable, since it involved spending time alone with Winn in his yehakin.

Maggie met little progress trying to figure him out, and she was even more confused since he kissed her. Teyas explained he was War Chief of the tribe, a title of great honor to their people. She could see how the tribe respected him, how they deferred to his orders without question. She noticed how the women flocked to him and how Winn rarely stood in a crowd without one of them hanging on him. He acted kindly and near affectionate with many of them, although she noticed he never disappeared with the woman as the other warriors did. Teyas shared bits of information with her in their conversations as they worked, and she giggled about how Winn was blinded to any other women since Maggie arrived. It was meant as a compliment, but it gave Maggie pause. She was more afraid of her own growing feelings than she would care to admit.

Winn spent the mornings with the other warriors and attending to his duties, which was fine with her, especially since he had become much more thoughtful after their conversation of the future. She hardly knew what to say, and the urge to comfort him in some way squeezed her chest so much she could barely speak to him without longing to ease his distress.

Maggie worked to learn some of the language and relieve her frustration, intrigued by the smooth cadence of their speech and eager to communicate. Perhaps if she learned more and behaved as if she was trying to fit in, she could find others who might help her with the Bloodstone. She suspected Winn had something to do with the way Teyas clammed up anytime Maggie asked about the Bloodstone, and she was sure Winn hid the stone from her. Maggie spent many mornings searching the yehakin for it without success.

Maggie sliced her knife through the venison top to bottom, and as she watched the meat yield, a hand fell on her shoulder. She swung swiftly around, the blade clutched in her fist, thinking about how Winn had ended the life of a man with such a weapon.

Winn plucked the knife from her hand, his brows arched in challenge. She bit back a harsh retort and took a breath before responding. She crossed her arms and held her hand out to him, palm up.

“I can’t finish without the knife,” she said evenly. He nodded.

“Teyas can finish. I would walk with you.”

“Are you asking me?”

He sighed, then nodded.

“Yes. Would you walk?”

Teyas smiled as if the exchange was normal courtship, and resumed her chores without complaint. To her surprise, Winn returned the knife to her hand and watched as she tucked it into the cord tied around her waist. She followed when he walked away, wondering where he would take her. He spoke little in the last two days other than to ask random questions about her time, which she tried to answer even though it made her more homesick, so this change in his behavior intrigued her.

She noticed eyes of the women follow them as they walked through the village toward the corral. Other than Teyas, Maggie was not allowed to spend much time talking to the others. She knew she had to earn Winn’s trust if she was ever going to make any progress with her plan to leave.

His sorrel horse stood waiting. Winn helped her up and then mounted behind her in one lithe leap. He had not allowed her to ride alone since the attack in the woods. She twisted her hands in the coarse mane and tried to touch him as little as possible, but her attempts were useless when riding bareback with the man. They balanced much easier when she relaxed and leaned back, and she felt his thighs fit behind hers with less effort. He rode with one hand looped around her waist, the other guiding the horse with a single hackamore rein around its nose.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“A surprise,” he replied simply.

The horse trudged up a loose gravel path which became too steep to climb safely, so they dismounted and walked the rest of the way while Winn led the animal. The air felt crisp, cool against her skin as a light breeze lifted her winding auburn hair from her shoulders. She realized they stood on a peak overlooking the village valley. She stood closer to the edge of the slope, amazed at the miles of evergreens covering the valley, scattered by clumps of peaked hilltops entwined along the winding river. Maggie twisted her hair into a knot with one hand and closed her eyes as the breeze flowed over her again. She took a deep breath and let it out slow. How strange she never noticed before how beautiful this place was!

“You can see all of Tsenacommacah lands from here,” Winn said. She heard his footsteps and felt his presence behind her when the tiny hairs on her neck stood at attention, but he did not move to touch her. The scent of leather and faint evergreen followed him, a scent she recognized now as belonging uniquely to him.

“It’s beautiful,” she replied.

“It is yours now as well. This land is part of you.”

She bit her lip and tried to soften the blow of her answer.

“I—I can’t stay here. I need to go back to my own time, Winn,” she said softly.

She felt his chest brush against her back as he let his breath out in a sigh.

“You have no choice. You are here, and it is done.” The quiet urgency in his voice left little room for compromise. “I give you this. I give you time to forget your sadness. There is no more time.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Many summers ago a Pale Witch arrived by magic and became one with our people. She had knowledge of the future, and guided our tribe. On the moon of my birth, she saw a Red Woman arrive with a Bloodstone. She foretold that I would fight the bear to save you, a maiden Time Walker.” His voice lowered, and she felt his head rest against her hair for a moment. “She said the Red Woman was no sacrifice, and she was banished for her disloyalty to the Weroance. When time came near for the prophecy to fulfill, I took all the Bloodstones of my tribe and buried them. I thought the legend could be broken.”

His hands slid down on her arms as his lips pressed close to her flushed cheek over her shoulder.

“My uncle is Opechancanough, Great Leader of our tribes, our Weroance. Long ago my uncle ordered the death of all Time Walkers. It is a great honor for a warrior to bring our Weroance the head of a Time Walker.”

She shook her head at the truth, the meaning of his words sinking in. A sacrifice? Bound by a legend, forced to obey by his tribe and his honor, would he follow through by ending her life? For all she knew of him, she believed he felt some care for her, but was it enough to risk the wrath of his uncle? Even if he knew how to return her to her time, she was certain he would never agree to do so now.

“Did you bring me here to – to kill me?” she whispered.

“No. Only to make you see. There is only one way I know to keep you safe, and that is to keep you with me. I will not let you go.”

Maggie closed her eyes, relief washing through her at the revelation he did not drag her up the mountain as a sacrifice.

“Winn,” she said softly.

“Can you learn to love this land, Tentay teh?” he asked. His warm breath caressed her ear as he spoke, sending a shiver down her spine. “I feel sorrow for your pain. I wish you to love my time like your own. Is there nothing here you could stay for?”

She did not expect the surge of confusion his words brought forth.

“There are things I love about…your time,” she admitted. “Your uncle wants me dead… is that the only reason you’re doing this?”

He gently tilted her head to the side and closed his warm mouth over hers. Her hands found his neck, and his fingers twisted in her loose hair.

“No. I would keep you even so.”

She told herself it was only an act, a way to gain his trust. A means to an end. Yet in that moment, her traitorous heart knew wanted more of him.

She glanced over his shoulder and her eyes fluttered open, her body suddenly frozen as she uttered a scream.

Standing behind them was another Indian male, his body littered with scars, one hand perched on his hip and the other clutching a feather-tipped spear as he watched them. Tall and lean, with a long narrow face and a sneer across his lips, his dark eyes met hers, betraying no hint of embarrassment but rather disappointment the show had ended.

At the sound of her scream, Winn pivoted fast and grabbed his knife, shoving her backward. She could only see his back as he stood between her and the stranger, but she saw the way he straightened as he spoke to the man.

The way the stranger continued to stare at her as he spoke to Winn made her blood run cold. She recognized little of the exchange as they spoke in their native language, but she heard the restrained anger in the words Winn spoke. Her breath caught in her throat as Winn suddenly breached the space between himself and the intruder, his knife gripped in his white-knuckled fist, and the other man raised his spear away from his hip in reply.

Winn spoke to the man, his voice low, yet even she could hear the threat. Silent for a moment in consideration, the intruder glared at Winn. The man then slowly lowered the spear.

“Shewanakuxkwe!” Winn snapped, turning slightly to glance at her. She did not recognize the word, so she simply ignored it. She backed away a few paces, waiting until she was sure Winn spoke to her. When she did not answer, he swung around in a fury and snatched her wrist, his handsome face contorted in a scowl. “Keptchat! Come here, now!”

Maggie recognized the word Keptchat immediately. Foolish woman, huh? How dare he speak to her like that after what they had shared moments before? The memory of the first insults between them sharpened her anger, and before she could stem her temper, she turned on her heel and stalked away from him. She wasn’t going to stick around while he insulted her in front of another man.

The next thing she knew, she was yanked roughly into his arms, his fingers gripping the base of her neck in warning. More from anger than from pain, she cried out and fought his hold.

“Let go of me!” she shouted, swinging around. When her open palm connected with his cheek, an accident rather than an assault, she heard the other Indian gasp. Winn’s fist tightened on her shoulder when she tried to pull away and she gritted her teeth, vowing she would not let him see how much he hurt her pride. His eyes flashed like glowing coals when she met his stare, and she thought she could feel his body quiver against hers as he spoke.

“Silence your foul tongue,” he warned, his words spoke low as she remained captured by his gaze. She started to open her mouth, but the scowl clouded his face and he shook her hard, as if to retain her attention. “Get on the horse,” he growled, and then added as an afterthought, “or I will drag you back to the village.”

With his last word he released her toward the horse, loosening his hold with more sharp uttered words she did not understand. She stumbled and nearly fell to her knees, but the stubborn resolve to defy him gave strength to her shaking legs and she managed to get back to the horse. Thoughts of escaping him with his own mount were not realized quickly enough, and before she could gather her wits, he leapt behind her on the beast and urged it back toward the village.

Nemattanew kept silent as they returned to the village, and Winn was glad. The woman stiffened and squirmed in his lap, causing him to groan and clasp her to his chest. He made little effort to curb the anger that seared his veins, for he knew if he did then fear would take over, and he was no man to lose himself in such a lowly emotion. If the other man saw weakness in him, Winn knew it would be reported to his uncle. Nemattanew was his uncle’s most trusted advisor, and if he exposed Winn’s weakness, the decision of Maggie’s punishment could be turned over to the Council.

Nemattanew would never let Maggie get away with her attack on the favorite nephew of the Weroance. It was bad enough that she tried to walk away from him when he gave her a direct command, but the blasted woman sealed her fate when she raised a hand to him. Yet she still sat in his lap, shaking in rage, and he knew she would attack him again should she have the chance. He regretted the harsh words he spoke to her, but he knew no other way to subdue her when the other warrior challenged him, for as much good it had done. Nemattanew chided him, declaring Winn was no master to the woman, rather he was a slave to her whims. He challenged how a warrior such as Winn could lead their people, if a lowly white woman held so much power over him.

Winn clenched his fists and thighs, and the horse took it as a signal to move faster, jerking Maggie back against him once again. He had no choice but to prove Nemattanew wrong. He swore as his lips buried in her soft red hair and she stiffened, but he was glad she chose to cease her struggles. He had no idea how to make her understand how tenuous a situation her actions sparked. By the way she described a woman’s place in her time, he knew there was little chance she could see how her actions put her life in danger. What had men become in the future that they let women act so brazen? They must all be weak fools, he sighed.

When they arrived in the village, he ignored the cries of welcome and rode directly to his yehakin. He leapt deftly off the horse and jerked Maggie down as well, thrusting her into the house before she could add any more credence to the charges against her. Once inside, he let her go, unwilling to let her be the one to shove him away. Her quick-tempered refusal of his attention bothered him more than he cared to dwell on.

“Leave me alone!” she snapped.

“You give no orders here!” he sniped back.

She retreated to the furs, where she stood with fists clutched to her sides, her chest heaving in her rage. By all that was sacred, she was a beauty! Even with her eyes glazed in anger, he still desired her.

He shook his head against the urges. He needed to break the hold the woman held him trapped in, one way or another. Perhaps then the wicked spell would collapse, along with the confusing need to protect her from the ways of his world. He moved to step toward her, but balked when she stepped back. His insides clenched at her response, and he could find no words to explain the foreign feeling. He did not care for her outspoken defiance, but he liked even less the way she cringed away from him with fear in her eyes.

Winn scowled. She should be afraid. He was the War Chief, and he cowered before no woman. He would not—could not— continue to let her defy him at every turn.

“Take your rest now, woman. I will think on your punishment.”

Her face twisted with a retort, but she wrapped her arms around herself instead before she whispered her defiant answer.

“You treat me like dirt in front of that – that pervert, but I get punished? You’ll drag me back to the village, will you? Drag yourself back to the village!”

He covered the distance between them as the black haze of rage clouded his vision. He understood few of her words, but her intent was clear and he would stand no more defiance from her. Still driven mad by his confusing feelings for her, he grabbed her by her upper arms and lifted her off the ground.

“I will! I must!” he shouted, shaking her as if the action could force her to understand. “I am nephew to the Weroance, War Chief to my people! You, woman, cannot strike me!”

He groaned a curse when she did just that, hitting him repeatedly with closed fists as she channeled her anger on him. He did nothing to deflect her blows, letting them fall upon his chest until she tired of her assault and let him hold her in his embrace. He once promised her she could rage as she liked in his house, and he would keep that promise. His first thought was to soothe her with sweet words, his blood screaming to hold her until she fought no more. But he realized immediately he knew nothing of how to calm this frustrating woman, the product of some bizarre future time.

“You cannot – you cannot raise your hand to me. Nemattanew will not let this go,” he said, his voice strained hoarse, her body like a hummingbird in his arms as he struggled to keep her in his embrace.

“Let me go. Just let me go home. Give me the stone, I will leave,” she whispered. His hand slid up behind her head, holding her close to prevent her from stealing his resolve with her glimmering jade eyes.

“I cannot let you leave.” I will never let you go. Anything but that.

“You can let me get away – you can pretend I escaped!”

“It would not be believed, Tentay teh.” He inhaled the sweetness of meadow flowers as he stroked her neck, keeping his lips pressed into her hair. He sighed when her body relaxed and she leaned into him.

“What is Tentay teh?” she asked.

He grimaced at her question, not certain if his name for her would break their fragile truce. “I call you my Fire Heart,” he murmured.

“Oh.” She fell silent.

“Ktaholich kweti kishku, Tentay teh.” He whispered against her hair, holding her gently as he pledged a promise in words she could not understand. You will love me one day, Fire Heart.

She did not ask the meaning and he was glad. He could only whisper such promises in his own tongue, leaving it lashed to his pounding heart where it belonged. Her silence bought them a measure of peace, and when he lowered her to the sleeping pallet she did not protest his motives. With the woman curled in his embrace and her back nestled against him, she finally submitted to sleep.

Winn lay awake as he enjoyed the thud of her heartbeat against his arm and the warmth of her shallow breathing on his skin. He knew he would face questions in the morning and be forced to act on her crime, and he wondered if he was a fool to keep her, but the alternative of letting her go caused his pulse to quicken and a piercing pain in his chest. He should take her life and be glad for it, but he knew from the moment he first laid eyes to her that the path was set. There would be no Red Woman sacrifice to please his uncle.

No, he would not let her go.

He woke later when his arms felt empty and he heard the shuffle of her feet across the room. Without shifting position, his eyes opened in narrow slits to see what the woman was up to. He suppressed a laugh when he spotted her rifling through one of the baskets where he kept his garments. She must still be searching for the Bloodstone, not knowing he hid it far away from her devious prying little fingers. Did she think he would not hear her leave his furs in the darkness? He hid a grin when she turned back toward him, and quickly closed his eyes.

She was a small thing, but not very lithe on her feet, and her feet scraped with each step she took closer to his furs. Her breath came in warm, shallow spurts and it singed his skin when she leaned closer, placing a hand in the furs on each side of his head. He longed to reach up and touch her, but the urge lay stifled as his curiosity burned stronger. What was she doing?

“Open your eyes!” she hissed. He felt the prick of a cold blade against his neck and readily obeyed.

The crazed woman held her knife to his throat.

By the Gods, the woman surely had no sense! First she dared strike him in front of another warrior, now she threatened him with a weapon? Torn between amusement and anger, his face remained impassive as he raised one eyebrow and glanced down at the blade. He swallowed hard when she swung one leg across his belly and straddled him, then pressed the knife harder to his throat.

Was she trying to kill him, or tease him to death?

“Looking for something, Maggie?” he asked softly.

“Yes!” she hissed. “You know what I want! Give me that Bloodstone now, and I won’t kill you!”

He felt a pinch and a trickle of blood when she moved, her hand unsteady and shaking although fury twisted her face and her eyes stayed firmly latched on his. He raised his brows and slowly placed his hands on her knees. Tracing lightly with his palms as she trembled harder, his fingers came to rest on her hips.

“Stop that! I will stab you, Winn! I just want the stone!”

She dug the blade in and he flinched, but it was only a scratch and worth the risk.

“Cut me now, woman, and I die a happy man,” he grinned.

She let out a furious screech, and he decided he had been tortured enough. He made no move to take her weapon, but swiftly lifted her and rolled until she lay beneath him. She grabbed the hair at his nape with one shaking fist and kept the knife firmly planted on his neck with the other.

“I have a knife, you idiot!” she shrieked.

“So you do. I don’t have the stone, nor will I give it to you.”

He groaned when she bucked against him and cursed.

“Let go of me!”

“You have the knife. Let me go,” he countered.

“No. You – you’ll punish me,” she whispered.

“That is the last thing I will do to you right now.”

“You’re lying!”

“No, I do not lie!” he growled, his patience wearing at her game. No other woman could have driven him so senseless, nor escaped death after holding a knife to his throat. But for some reason he felt his power drain with her, as if it mattered not that he was the Great War Chief of his people, nor even a man larger and stronger than she was. She battered him to the ground with her stubborn fire, and he could not lift a finger to punish her for it.

The fingers she clenched in his hair loosened. Her gaze did not waver from his. He dipped his head slowly, aware of the knife between them, and gauged her reaction when he planted a soft kiss against her neck, not sure if she would back down, and suddenly the thought of her panic stopped him.

For all of her threats and demands, she was no more than terrified. He knew he deserved her fear, in fact he made great effort to show her he would be obeyed. Her behavior put her in grave danger from his warriors. She had no understanding of his time, or the ways of his people. He had none of hers, but he could see it was clearly quite different. He wanted nothing better than to keep her, but she believed the worst of him. She had no idea he would never throw question to his honor by harming a woman. As much as he wished he were a lesser man in that moment, he drew back from her.

He shifted his body to lie beside her, and pulled her against his chest before she could protest, allowing her to keep the knife if she chose. She was a stake in his arms, her back stiff against his skin, her body shrinking away from his. Let her keep her blade, if it eased her mind. He would show her that hurting her was nothing near to what he truly desired.

“Stop fighting.” The hoarse command strained from his lips as he pressed them into her soft hair. He pulled a fur over them and tucked her trembling body closer, noticing her knuckles were white and still clutched around the knife handle. He closed his hand over her fist and let it rest over her shaking one.

“When you must kill a man, strike swiftly,” he whispered against her ear. “But I am not that man. It is only me, eholkon. Sleep now and be safe, ntehem.”

It is only me – he who loves you. Sleep now and be safe, my heart.

It was a long time before her furious shaking finally slowed and her fight diminished enough to surrender, but eventually her breath eased into a shallow sleeping rhythm. Sleep did not claim him, and he rose at dawn to find the knife still clenched in her hand.

He kissed her softly before he left.

He sat cross-legged next to Chetan while Makedewa paced near the entrance of the Long House. His brothers stood by his side against the Council, neither in defense of Maggie or against her, merely showing their support for him by their presence. Winn hoped it would be enough to spare her against the accusations Nemattanew made.

Technically, Maggie was a prisoner, his slave to be precise, since Winn was the one that found her and brought her to the village. Tradition called for the owner to discipline the slave, but if others thought he did not punish her crimes in an appropriate manner, he could be challenged.

On return to the village, Nemattanew demanded immediate audience with the council. Before Winn could speak, the other warrior described how Maggie slapped his face and ignored his commands. Even worse, he told the Council that Winn did not raise a hand to her in return. Thankfully, Nemattanew had no idea Maggie had attacked him with a knife during the night, and for that he was grateful, since that offense would have him kneeling in the dirt before the Council, begging for her life.

As he sat beside Chetan that morning, waiting for word of the decision, he hoped his impromptu lie had been enough to sway the Council.

“Did you truly beat her, as you said?” Chetan asked quietly. Winn avoided his gaze, his throat tight with the lie he would tell his brother.

“Yes. She has been punished.”

Chetan snorted in response.

“I hope she stabs you in your sleep. How do you expect her to act? She knows nothing of our time! You must teach her our ways if you plan to keep her. She is in danger by knowing nothing of our people.”

Winn sighed, his brother’s words hitting closer to the truth than he realized.

“She knows much of our people. She chooses to attack me! I know not how to make her listen,” he growled. Chetan glanced over at him, one brow raised, his mouth parted in surprise.

“What do you do that angers her?” Chetan asked.

“Nothing! I do nothing,” he snapped. His brother chuckled.

“Do less nothing, and more something, or they will break her,” Chetan said, eyeing the Council as they returned in single file to their spots inside the Long House. Makedewa joined them, the strength of his brothers flanking his sides.

The speaker of the Council remained standing as the others sat, his long bear mantle dragging the floor behind him as his horned stag helmet graced his proud head. Diminutive under the trappings of his station, the man had served since the time before the English arrived, maintaining his position through many wars and deaths. Winn looked up at the wrinkled man now, hoping the decision was a fair one.

“Winkeohkwet, we have talked on the matter of your slave.”

“Yes, Council?” he said. His back was straight as a pike, his lungs barely moving as he held them without air, his mouth parched with thirst.

“We will leave the punishment of your slave to you. For now. Teach her well of what her defiance will cost in the future.”

He wanted to close his eyes and shout his joy, but instead he lowered his head and humbly bowed to the Council.

Damn that man to hell. Her waking thoughts brought the events of the previous day back in rapid succession.

She groaned at the flush of warmth in her belly at the memory of their encounters, not sure what enraged her more – his treatment of her in front of Nemattanew, or the fact that he withheld the stone from her. Her fingers clenched down on the bedding and she ground her frustration into the furs, feeling abandoned by her own good sense. Damn him. She hated her weakness, despised the way she forgot everything whenever his crystal blue eyes met hers.

The room appeared empty when she risked peeking out from the furs, and she was relieved. She did not want to face him, unwilling to let him tear down her defenses. If he were in her time, he would be a goner after the way he treated her, dismissing her in front of his friend. She was not raised to tolerate that sort of behavior from a man, in his time or any other. A bitter frown formed as she recalled her last real date, disastrous, as it had been.

His name was Josh, a fellow student in her college Biology class, and he had asked her out several times before she said yes. Grampa had been sick for weeks and she was reluctant to leave him, but the old man knew she needed to get out of the house and he insisted she go. It wasn’t that she disliked Josh, in fact he was a handsome athletic man and he certainly turned her head when he walked in the room, but she felt little interest in cultivating a relationship. Although she had been attending college for a year, there had been little time to even think about dating. Between running the farm and worrying over Grampa, her plate was full.

After a pleasant but uneventful dinner, Josh took her to a movie. She recalled putting popcorn between them at one point, but he was persistent in his advances, and managed a few kisses and poorly aimed gropes anyway. Nothing earth shattering, and certainly nothing to cause her blood to simmer.

The night ended with Josh parking his car in the driveway of the farm, a single gravel lane that the main farmhouse shared with the cottage. Maggie didn’t mind when he kissed her goodnight, expecting it would be the quickest way to end their evening before she jumped out of the car, but she was stunned when he continued to slather her mouth with his as she reached for the door handle. She was not interested in a petting fest in the driveway. She shoved him off and he came back for more.

“Goodnight Josh!” she snapped when she was able to come up for air.

“Not yet, babe,” he insisted. She screeched when one of his hands slipped inside the top of her blouse. Her desperate hand found the door latch, and she fell out of the car onto the gravel. Sprawled on her backside as she righted her blouse, she was speechless when her amorous date was yanked out of the car by a pair of very muscled arms.

Next thing she knew, a hulking mad giant stood spread legged beside the car with her date held by his neck. The veins stood out on his neck in thick cords and his usually gentle face was paved with a scarlet mask and no sign of remorse.

“Agh! Oof! I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” her date gurgled as his face turned purple.

Josh choked out a stuttered apology, and Marcus slowly let the younger man down from where he held him several feet off the ground. Maggie watched as Josh scrambled into his car. He gunned it down the driveway, spewing a cloud of gravel smoke as he retreated.

Maggie burst into laughter at the sight of her date fleeing. She knew it would be a long time before any of her classmates asked her out again, but the notion did not bother her so much. Marcus raised one thick black eyebrow at her and shook his head in disgust.

“Ye think that’s funny, Maggie?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, I do!” she laughed.

“Are you all right?” the older man asked finally as her amusement faded. He looked out of character at that moment, still the enormous beast of a man who had been her protector since childhood, but when his shoulders slumped in relief and he reached for her hand, she knew something was more amiss than just her disastrous date.

“What is it, Marcus?”

His lips thinned and his normally twinkling blue eyes clouded over. His brogue sounded thick and hesitant when he answered.

“It’s yer grandpa. You better come inside.”

Grandpa never did wake up after that night.

Maggie sat up in the furs and brushed back her tears, stowing the bitter memory away. Marcus must be worried sick about her disappearance. But it was no use thinking of the past. Or her future past. Or whatever it was properly considered now. She needed to get it together and figure out a way out of her current mess, regardless of what year it was. The knife lay discarded on the furs. She crawled over to the bowl of water and used it to rinse her mouth, then tied the wayward fastening of her doeskin dress to some semblance of decency before Teyas burst into the yehakin.

Teyas collapsed onto her knees in front of Maggie and took her hands in her own. The girl spread them wide, raking her over with a practiced eye, then broke into a wide smile of relief. Maggie squinted at her, wondering what on Earth the girl was up to.

“I knew my brother told lies!” she exclaimed.

“What are you talking about, Teyas?”

“He told the Council he punished you for your crime. He said he beat you, but I knew he told false,” she answered smugly in her glee. Maggie pulled her hands away and sat back on her heels. So that was his game, huh? Tell the other men he beat her into submission? Well, Winn had another thing coming!

“That arrogant—”

“No! Do not be angry, sister!”

“And why not?” Maggie seethed. “He’s a liar!”

“Maggie,” Teyas smiled, taking her hands back and placing them in her lap between them. “Your ways are so strange. I do not understand your anger. My brother shows great love for you in this way. He risks much by telling a half truth.”

“He can shove it. And if he ever touches me again, I will—”

“You will what? Stab me with your knife?”

Both women went silent when Winn passed through the door. With one glance at his agitated stare, Maggie averted her eyes and refused to acknowledge him. She held her breath to keep from returning his taunt with one of her own, aware that she tread precariously after attacking him with her blade. She rose from the furs and motioned to Teyas to follow.

“We have chores to do, right Teyas?”

“Ah, well – ” the girl stammered.

“I need to see to Blaze, and I am taking my clothes to the river to be washed. My dress is ruined, and my only spare is covered in mud, thanks to that moody savage brother of yours. Stay if you want, but I’m getting to work,” Maggie said. She frowned at the way Teyas glanced at Winn for approval, her mouth hanging open in disbelief. With a shrug, Maggie grabbed her basket of clothes and moved to pass Winn, tucking her knife in the thong at her waist and hoping he did not notice. She should have known it would not have been so easy.

He stopped her with one hand closed around her upper arm, not painful, but still firm. She refused to look at him, but she felt his breath close on the skin of her neck as he bent his mouth to her ear.

“You may go,” he said simply. She bit back a harsh retort and jerked her arm from his grasp, annoyed that he felt the need to give her permission to leave and frustrated that she was incapable of submitting to him. With each passing day she felt she was slipping away from the independent modern woman she once was, instead becoming like all the other women around her.

Stepping out into the daylight, she stalked away from the house with a purposeful stride toward the river. She still had her knife, and she would stab him with it if he dared make any more advances on her. He would not find her hesitant again.

She vowed not to cry as she navigated the path to the river. Damn his blasted heathen heart. Perhaps she would jump in the river and drift downstream, surely someone would help her. As attractive as the notion was, she knew it would be foolish. She knew little of this time, nor how to live alone in the wilderness and survive. She was trapped here just as surely as if he tied her to a post. She bowed her head in frustration and kicked at the dirt in her path. When she heard the racket of none too careful footsteps behind her, she swung around in a fury to confront her stalker.

“Leave me alone. I have work to do,” she muttered.

Winn grinned when she turned and spoke. She had no idea what he found so humorous, and his chuckle enraged her to the point of violence. She gripped the basket until her fingers throbbed with the effort.

“What is so goddamn funny, Winn?” she asked.

“I should pretend to beat you every day, if that is what it takes to make you work,” he laughed. She snorted a low curse in reply and turned on her heel, continuing down the path to the river. She would not let him bait her into attacking him, although every sliver of her being wanted to scratch the smile from his handsome face.

“Nothing to say, Tentay teh?”

“Go away.”

“I would have words with you. Stop walking.”

She stopped on his command, but kept her back to him as she stepped off the path. She felt him beside her, felt his stare sear her skin. His words dripped of heat as they rolled smoothly off his tongue. She refused to look at him, afraid one glimpse of his smoldering eyes would render her senseless.

“Yes?”

“You call me savage? The English use that word as well.”

“Well, you act like it,” she said.

“Why do you have anger at me?”

“You treated me like a whore.”

“Hore?”

A deep sigh escaped her as a huff, and she kneeled down to the riverbank where she could wash her clothes. She hoped he would tire of talking and just leave her alone.

“It means – it means a bad woman. A woman who does bad things. One who sleeps with any man,” she said, at loss to define it for him and blushing as she tried. He frowned as he considered her explanation, and then grinned sheepishly when he realized her meaning. But Maggie was surprised to see his eyes darken again after his initial display of amusement.

“Is that what you think?”

“Yes, Winn. If we were in my time, and did—we did those things,” she stammered, “and then you treated me so badly in front of your friends, I would never speak to you again. You don’t just kiss a woman, then toss her around and holler at her. How can you expect me to be okay with that?”

“This is not your time, it is mine,” he answered, with no trace of harsh intent. “Women do not challenge their men. I would kill a man for less than what you have done to shame me.”

“I’m not your woman.”

“I found you. You belong to me.”

“This is useless! I just want to go home. Why is that so hard for you to get through your thick head?”

He tilted his head a bit and grinned when he realized the meaning of her insult.

“Why do you not understand I cannot let you leave?”

“Because I can’t just give up. If you were me, wouldn’t you do the same?”

Neither offered an answer. She filled the silence by slapping her wet dress against a rock to rub it clean. He sat down a few feet away on the riverbank and watched her.

“Yes,” he said softly. “I would do the same.”

She looked up at him. His eyes were soft blue orbs as he watched her, briefly lingering before he lowered his head, his braid falling over one brown shoulder.

“What fills your day, in your time?”

She startled at the earnest question, and dared a glance his way. He sat cross-legged in the grass, leaning forward on his knees. His eyes followed her movements without a semblance of threat. She felt her skin prickle in a warm rush and quickly turned back to her work.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I would hear it.”

“If I tell you, will you stop pestering me?”

He considered her offer, and agreed with a curt nod.

“I will go back to the village,” he promised.

“Fine! I went to college during the day, and then I came home. I took care of my grandfather. I looked after the farm. I kept it running pretty well.”

“You lived with only your grandfather?”

“Yes. Well, no. Marcus lived with us. He was like family.”

“Like a husband?”

“No, like family. He looked out for me. He was like—like an older brother. Or an uncle. I never had a father.”

He scowled and changed his tactics. Maggie was stunned when he tossed a pebble at her, hitting her backside. The gesture seemed playful, and completely out of line.

“What is college?” he asked. She picked up a sizeable stone and considered launching it at him, but let it drop, annoyed as two more pebbles struck her thigh in quick succession.

“A place people go to learn. We sit in rooms and listen to other people who teach,” she answered.

He joined her at the creek and took one of her garments from the basket, which he began scrubbing against the stones next to her. She scowled but said nothing.

“What you told me of your time… my people. Is nothing left of us, nothing at all?”

She stopped squeezing water from her dress, and glanced sideways at him. His furrowed brow sheltered his eyes as he continued to work on the garment in his hand.

“Winn … I shouldn’t have told you.”

“I asked you. I wanted to know.”

She slipped her fingers over his hand, the urge to comfort him as strong as the reflex of taking another breath, wishing she could take away the anguish shadowed in his eyes. How could she comfort such a man? A man she watched rise to her defense against a bear, not knowing who she was, only that she needed saving. A man who acted in the moment, who took the life of another warrior that threatened her, without hesitation or question.

How could she console him, when it was her own words that caused him such misery? The guilt hit her hard. What right did she have to tell him what the future would bring? As for specific dates and years that events would happen, she was useless. She knew the basics, but she had never been an ardent student of history.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. His calloused thumb moved against her hand, then squeezed it, only a gentle motion, but enough for her to hear the words he left unspoken. She did not want to move, afraid to shatter the tenuous strings binding them in the moment, unwilling to lose any ground when they worked so hard for every inch of the fragile peace between them.

She saw him swallow as he abruptly pulled his hand away and stood up.

Chetan walked toward them on the path, chuckling at the sight of them washing clothes together. His son followed behind, also bearing a curious grin, but too respectful to laugh at Winn as his father did. Chetan obviously had no such compulsion, holding a fist against his lower belly as he goaded Winn.

“Will you wash my clothes as well, brother?”

Winn pursed his lips for a moment, then one corner of his mouth crested into a grin.

“No, you are not quite as pretty, you can wash your own clothes,” Winn shot back. He tossed the dress he had wrung out into the basket, and playfully snatched the basket from her hands.

“I’m not done with that!” she said, trying to take the basket back. Much to her annoyance, he dodged her hands, dropping her basket to impishly deflect her attempt to recover it. If she did not clean what few clothes she had, she would have nothing presentable to wear to the feast, and she was bone tired of feeling like the beggar visitor.

“Yes, we are done here,” he argued, laughing.

Frustrated beyond measure, she swung around back to the creek bed.

“I answered your questions, now you can leave,” she said.

“As you wish!” he grinned. She had no sooner bent back to her task when he swept her up over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, slapping his palm against her buttocks when she kicked out.

“You liar!” she screeched, furious at being treated yet again like a piece of property.

“I said I would go back to the village. I did not say you could stay here.”

She reached out to strike him, but when her fist hit his back he slapped her bottom again, this time with more authority. She realized they had reached the village, and that people stared open mouthed at the warrior carrying the crazed flame-haired woman. She remembered his warning about defiance in front of the villagers and clamped her mouth shut. When he finally entered the yehakin and dropped her to her feet, she stalked off to the corner and sat with her back to him.

“I won’t stay here! I have things to do! You left my clothes at the river, now I have nothing to wear!”

“You will stay here until I say you may leave. If you leave again I will tie you. Do you understand?”

“Don’t threaten me.”

“Then behave!” he bellowed. He kicked a fur closer to the fire and thrust out his hand toward it. “Sit,” he demanded. She hesitated long enough to see the spike of rage cross his face, then decided it would be wise to heed his request. Slowly lowering herself down to sit on the fur, she met his furious gaze without yield.

“Opechancanough sends his advisor to see how our people fare,” he began. Maggie let him speak without interruption, her curiosity sparked when he spoke of his family. She knew little about him other than what she gleaned from his sister and mother, which was next to nothing. They would not hear of her desire to leave, and placated her with assurances that Winn would keep her safe – as if that was a consolation.

“My uncle has much hate for the white settlers, and he wishes to make them go back across the great sea to their own land. He grows tired of their demands and would see every white man dead.” His throat tightened as he continued, and a shadow of disgust fell over his face. “I serve him as council to the whites. I speak their English, and I eat at their tables. I learn their ways, so I can see their lies to my people.”

“So that’s why you speak English so well,” she murmured. He nodded.

“My uncle sent word of his plans to rid us of the English. It will happen soon. He wants my help, as I have always given him.” He paused and looked away for a moment, then shifted his eyes back to her. “Nemattanew has heard whispers of a Time Walker in the village…I think he knows you are a Blooded One.”

“Nemattanew?” she stammered. “I don’t understand.”

“Listen, woman! Nemattanew will tell my uncle a Blooded One is here. Opechancanough will demand your death…and it must be done.”

Her teeth slid over her bottom lip and squeezed as she felt a wave of nausea surge up her throat. She leaned forward to fight the urge and slowly felt it wane.

“You can just let me go.”

“He will hunt you.” She grimaced at the words unsaid. If Winn did not kill her, his uncle would.

“You won’t kill me,” she whispered.

He stared at her across the flames of the fire. “I should end your life. I should kill you and feel no regret,” he said softly in return. Her spine stiffened at his quiet admission.

“Then do it,” she taunted, regretting the foolish words the moment they left her lips.

“Perhaps I will. If I smother your breath while you sleep, will I still see you in my dreams?” He rose from his spot and bent down in a crouch in front of her. She trembled at the luminous darkness in his eyes, his body tensed and ready to strike. “Perhaps I will cut your throat as you tried to cut mine. Will I still want to touch you when your blood is on my hands? Or will it chase your ghost from my thoughts?”

He held his palms out and considered them for a moment, shaking his head.

“I think not. I think still you would haunt me.” She closed her eyes as he reached for her and felt his fingers take a strand of her hair. She felt his breath close and dared not open her eyes for fear of losing the last shreds of willpower she had left. Her heart hammered so loud she was sure he could hear it thump in her chest.

He slowly rose to his feet and put distance between them. He parted the hide covering the doorway and paused, his back turned and his face shrouded from her questioning gaze.

“You will join the women for the feast tonight. You worked hard to prepare it.”

She found no power to answer him before he left.

Although the remnants of their conversation left her reeling, Maggie went along with Teyas to take the evening meal. Teyas graciously provided another garment for Maggie to wear, since all that she had was still wet from washing. The women sat apart from the men, seated in a group by the large fire burning in the village center outside the Long House, the steady hollow beat of drums echoing through the air and the smoke of their pipes wafting into swirls above their heads. She was glad to be among them, but still frustrated by her slow grasp of their language. Teyas did not seem to notice, giving her a smile now and then as she chatted with the other women.

Dusk settled over the treetops, casting a magical hue on the festivities as near naked children raced through the crowd, shrieking and laughing in their games. Their antics shadowed the behavior of youngsters in a schoolyard, and the bitter reminder of her home brought on the sting of sadness. She would not break down in front of the women. Most of them viewed her with suspicion, and she would not have them see her as a weak simpering fool.

She wished they would hurry on with the meal so she could escape to the yehakin and get some kind of handle on the situation. If she could only find out where Winn hid the Bloodstone, she knew she would be one step closer to going home. Of course, she had no idea how to make the time travel magic work, and then there was the added complication of the feelings for Winn that she tried desperately to ignore.

Winn was seated across the fire with the other warriors, looking more relaxed than he had earlier. She watched as he took a puff from a long handled pipe and then passed it to the man beside him who did the same. He looked sleepy as he laughed, with pink tinges of bloodshot around the edges of his eyes, and Maggie wondered just what exactly was in the wild tobacco blend they smoked. Apparently, it was a luxury only the men enjoyed, not that she wished to partake, but it still intrigued her that women were not allowed the same pleasures.

As she watched the men enjoy the smoke, Winn lifted his head and their eyes met across the fire. Her stomach lurched and somersaulted when he smiled despite the anger she still harbored for him, and it was all she could do to look away when a crimson blush crept across her cheeks.

Nemattanew did not share the smoke with the others. He wore a multitude of feathers, his back decorated with the full wings from an unlucky swan. He looked like a treacherous angel, the wings spread from his shoulders, fluttering in the brisk night breeze. She quickly averted her eyes when he noticed her gaze. His eyes held nothing but bleak hatred, dark brown orbs full of restrained malice as he stared back at her across the fire.

She needed to get away from them all, even for a few moments.

Maggie made an excuse to check on Blaze, escaping from the happy gathering if only for a short time. If she continued to enjoy their company and take part in their lives, it would only be that much harder when she left. She had doubts about saving her own heart from breaking, but she pushed that indecision aside and concentrated on the colt instead.

She expected to be joined by the children as she tended to Blaze, but she was surprised to see they did not follow her as she made her way to the lean-to. Horses stomped and their hooves made impatient thuds in the straw at the sight of her, and she imagined they thought it was feeding time by her presence. Blaze usually ran to her on sight, and she was puzzled to find him missing.

She twirled around to make her way back to the feast, intent on finding Winn to see what had happened to the colt. Suddenly a hand closed over her mouth and she was jerked into the shadows. She let out a muffled screech against the hand and stomped on his moccasin-clad foot, eliciting a deep chuckle from her captor.

“You fight like a wildcat,” he laughed. “Do not fear, it is only me.”

“You scared me! You—”

“You left the meal,” he murmured as his mouth came down softly on hers. She could not recall what curses she meant to call him, her senses scattered by his touch. The tangy scent of the smoke clung to him, sending a tingle through her lips that slowly changed to a pleasant numb twinge.

“I didn’t think anyone would notice,” she answered.

“I noticed.” His lips caressed her shoulder and she could feel the warmth of his shallow breaths upon her skin. “I missed you,” he said softly, his face still hidden against her. They stayed like that for along moment, clutching each other.

She closed her eyes at his admission, for once in her life at loss for words.

“What magic is this that I cannot leave you? Why do I stay here with you, when I should go join my men? Do you cast a spell, Tentay teh?”

Maggie shook her head without a response, afraid to interrupt the flow of his words as the dam of his emotions began to crumble. Even if the smoke had clouded his judgment and loosened his tongue, she still longed to hear the words from his heart. Surely, the thing between them meant something to him.

“My uncle calls for your death. If I make you my wife in truth, I know not what he will do. Even he cannot make a man kill his wife. Should I just take you and be damned?”

“You think I would agree to be your wife?” she asked, breathless as his lips traced a path of delicious torture across her cheek.

“You would agree,” he murmured, intent on his work as he continued to nuzzle her.

“No I would not,” she insisted.

“What if I take you to my yehakin now, would you still argue?”

“Wait a second,” she said, tearing away from his seeking lips. “I don’t have to marry you if we- if we just sleep together.”

“This is my time. I can see your fire for me, I feel it in here,” he insisted, brushing his fingertips lightly over her heart. “And I promise you, when I take you as mine, it is forever. That is my way.” His hand fell to her waist and he pulled her tight against his chest, his face hardening. “Have you given your heart to another before me?”

“I haven’t given you anything. You never ask, you just give orders,” she stammered.

“Answer me,” he insisted.

“No. Never. I have never loved a man enough…to do that,” she admitted.

A flush crept over her neck and cheeks when she saw him smile, the sudden understanding of her words apparent in his face.

“Then you admit I have your love?” His mouth closed over hers.

She threaded her fingers in his hair and clutched him against her, and she knew no other answer to give him. For once, she felt no urge to deny him. The words slipped from her lips.

“You do,” she whispered, meeting his soft blue eyes with her own.

His mouth covered hers, eager and intense. The possession in his kiss left no question, the words once spoken, never to be rescinded. The shadow of consequence fell away, smothered beneath the urgent need to be a part of him, with him, swallowed whole by the unknown, tempered by his strength.

With one swift movement, he lifted her into his arms. He carried her across the clay packed path to his yehakin, where he dropped the bearskin hide across the door to shield them inside.

“Ntehem. Let me love you,” he murmured.

Maggie felt the warmth of golden sunshine across her face from the smoke hole as the sun rose overhead, gently dousing their skin as they lay together on the furs. Limbs entwined with his, her head resting against his chest, she could hear the thud of his heart beneath her ear. It was slow and steady, humming a peaceful rhythm that soothed her senses back into memory of the night they shared. Her lips curled into a smile, and he must have felt the motion, for he sat up a bit and arched one brow at her, his thick dark lashes opened slightly over sleepy eyes.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

Although fresh off the intimacy between them, shyness overtook her at the thought of discussing the act.

“Nothing,” she lied. It was his turn to smile. He pulled her upward against his chest so that she had to look at him.

“If you want me again, you only need ask, my wanton woman,” he grinned. She blushed harder at his taunt and giggled, and he covered her lips with his own. Teasing at first, he nipped at her lip, but his kiss became more wanting when she lowered her head for more. He held her head with both hands and tilted her face, the taste of sweet tangy smoke clinging to his lips. His eyes twinkled with mischief, soft and wide as he gazed at her with a boyish grin.

“No – I mean, yes, but that’s not it.”

“No or yes?” he smirked.

She buried her face into his chest, feeling the blood rise to her cheeks at the turn of the conversation, at utter loss to explain the questions she wanted to ask.

“Where is Blaze?”

“You think of a horse now? Perhaps I should distract you better,” he murmured, tugging playfully on her ear with his teeth. “He’s in the meadow with the other young horses, if you must know.”

“Okay. What does ntehem mean?” she asked. He smiled.

“My heart,” he said softly. “More questions, ntehem?”

“You’ve done this before,” she blurted out, her cheek still lying hidden against him. “I, well, I haven’t. I was just wondering what … wondering if … oh, Christ! I want to know if this was good for you. I mean, if I was good,” she stammered, the last of her words trailing off as a mumble. She regretted the question immediately, sure she would be unable to answer him coherently if he chose to entertain her ridiculous conversation.

She squeezed her eyes shut when he slipped his fingers under her chin and raised it up.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his tone teasing yet insistent. She complied, grudgingly, and met his steady gaze with her own.

“I just…I just want to know. Was this…special to you?” she said softly.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out, then he clamped it shut. She saw him swallow and he shook his head a bit as if clearing it from a fog, then pushed himself up to sit. She moved with him and settled in his lap, her belly flipping in cartwheels when he settled his arms around her waist.

“Look up, ntehem,” he said finally, glancing upward with her at the rising sun through the smoke hole, its shimmer too powerful on their eyes to view for more than a moment.

They bowed their heads together and he paused, taking her hand in his and turning it gently over. He considered the scar in her palm, gently tracing his thumb over the silver knot that seared her skin like a brand. He brought it to his lips and kissed it, then laid it against his chest over the steady beat of his heart. She felt the heat, the pounding, the joining of the connection as warmth spread through her body to the deepest recess of her soul.

“A man is only a mountain in the darkness, waiting for the day when the sun will smile on him,” he whispered. “But no man can look on the sun without burning. You burn me, but I will not let you go. I have waited too long to feel you smile on me.”

He kissed her tears gently away as they slid down her cheeks, kissing her mouth with the tangy taste of salt between them.

“Special? If you need a word, then take this,” he whispered. “You are mine, and I am yours. I know no other word for that.”

She settled back down deep into his embrace, her questions answered.

Maggie and Teyas rode alongside each other as the men rode ahead. When the women were invited to travel to Martin’s Hundred for supplies, they both gladly accepted. Maggie was anxious to see the English town, curious to connect it to the little she knew about the history of the settlement. Over the last few weeks as they explored their newfound intimacy, she noticed Winn seemed reluctant to take her to town, so it was a surprise when he made the offer. She had many questions about the English, and she hoped her curiosity would be satiated by the visit.

Her fat pony plodded along, swinging her back and forth in a lazy rhythm. The glutton resorted to grabbing at every piece of tall grass they passed, so Maggie was forced to tap him frequently with her heels to remind him his job was to walk, not eat. Teyas had no such problem with her mount, but she was kind enough to lag behind with Maggie anyway.

“C’mon, you lazy hog!” Maggie groaned, kicking her pony for what seemed the hundredth time. Teyas giggled and helped her along by swatting Maggie’s horse with her rein, which did absolutely nothing.

“He only does that with you,” Teyas smirked.

“Well, maybe I need an upgraded model,” Maggie huffed.

“Upgrade?” Teyas asked, raising her eyebrows.

“A better horse. A faster one,” she explained. Teyas shrugged and tossed a round orange fruit at Maggie, which she caught in her lap. It was a maypop, and it seemed ages since she’d tasted anything she recognized.

“Try it. The elders say this fruit holds magic.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow but took a bite of the overripe fruit anyway, laughing when a bit of the sweet juice dribbled down her chin.

“Thanks. It’s good,” she agreed. “A little soft, but good.”

They followed the men along the coastline for what Maggie estimated was several miles. Once the beach began to narrow they came to an inlet, suddenly in sight was the outline of some sort of civilization shimmering as a mirage against the sand. Maggie pushed herself up as high as she could manage on the short pony and craned her neck to see.

“There it is!” she said. “Is that Martin’s Hundred?”

Winn must have heard her exclamation. He circled his horse around and rode back, trotting up to ride beside her. Sandwiched between Winn and Teyas, Maggie let out a frustrated groan. She wanted to gallop in for a closer look.

“It is part of Martin’s Hundred they call Wolstenholme Town. We will get there soon enough, no need to hurry,” Winn teased her.

“Are you sure they’re friendly? It doesn’t seem safe to me,” she asked. He made a half grunt, half snort sound and frowned, shaking his head.

“As safe as it always is. I’ve had no trouble, but I will have you stay with me. No wandering off. Hear me, Teyas?” Winn called over his shoulder. Teyas tossed her long braid over her shoulder with a shrug and retorted with the same grunted admonishment the men frequently used, and Maggie giggled at their exchange.

A shrill whinny pierced the air. Chetan’s stallion reared and began to prance as the palisade gates opened, and Winn rode ahead to help steady Chetan’s wayward animal. Their party entered amidst shouted greetings and waves of welcome, and as she looked around at the bevy of faces in the crowd, Maggie suddenly felt her body sway as if she were on a boat.

Blurred faces swirled around her, cleared, and then clouded. The strange sensation hit again, and with the threat of losing her breakfast, she leaned forward against the coarse mane of her pony and promptly evacuated the contents of her stomach down the side of the horse. When she let out a groan, Teyas swung back around, and she reached over and grabbed Maggie’s reins.

“What ails you, Maggie?” Teyas asked. Maggie shook her head as another wave of nausea came, milder than the last. She was able to straighten up somewhat by the time Winn reached them.

“It must have been the maypop, I thought it tasted off. I’m fine now,” she muttered. Whatever it was seemed to be passing, for which she was grateful. She wished she had passed on eating the fruit, since it seemed too soft to her, but the deed was done and now she could only face the consequence.

“You look like an eel, all green and wet,” Winn laughed. He held out his arm, and she gladly slid over onto his lap, rather than risk falling off her own mount. She supposed it was all right to behave like a damsel in distress once in a while.

A damp cloth covered her eyes as she rested. She suspected it was meant to lie on her forehead, but as such things happen, it drifted downward like a mask, and when she pulled it off her face and looked around, she figured she was lucky it had not fallen over her mouth and stopped her breathing since no one would have noticed.

She sat up on a padded bench. She had not noticed much when Winn carried her inside, but now that she had recovered from her bout of sickness, she was eager to look about. Gathered around a long wood slat table were the Indians she had arrived with and several strangers. She seemed to be in the parlor of some sort of store, a saltbox style building as far as she could tell, with whitewashed walls and glass windows. Outside the large picture window toward the open door sun streamed into the room, and she could see what looked like a packed clay road, with the semblance of further similar buildings across the way.

Other less interested people filled the space, some looking at shelves lining one wall. An assortment of glass jars littered the shelves, filled with varying colors of remedies. A second shelf housed multiple sizes of blown glass bowls. A large round basket filled with squares of clean linen sat pushed against the wall beneath the shelves, and several fine trunks were stacked nearby.

In the middle of the room a table was currently occupied by a boy of about five-years-old lying flat on his back, flailing his legs as a curly haired teenage girl held his shoulders in place. The boy knocked her white cap off her head in the struggle, and when she reached to grab it, he jumped off the table and ran for the door. An older woman stood behind the table, a rustic set of hot pliers waving in her hand as she laughed.

“I think the mite wants to keep that rotten tooth, Miss Ellen,” the healer laughed. The sprite made it through the door before anyone could snag him, and the younger girl shook her head with a groan.

“Did someone lose this?”

Maggie looked up at Winn’s voice. Winn came through the door, the boy hoisted over his shoulder like a sack of grain, kicking and squealing at his captor.

“Winkeohkwet, bring the lad here!” the older woman called. He crossed the room and deposited the child back on the table, then held the child while the woman quickly plucked the tooth from his gaping mouth. The child howled and burst into tears.

“There, there, hush, child! ‘Tis the indignity of it all that pains him, not the tooth,” she assured to the curly-haired girl who soothed the child. “That tooth was plenty numb from the spirits I gave ‘em.”

“Feel better, ntehem?” Winn asked, kneeling down at her side. He placed his hand over hers and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Yes. Did I make a mess?” she asked, her pride more damaged than anything.

He chuckled. “You did it quite properly, your horse did not mind. Did you eat enough today?”

“I think so. I’m fine now, really. Just a little dizzy.”

One eyebrow dipped down and he made a dismissive hissing noise through his teeth.

“Right, then. Fine? I think not. Stay here, I will be back,” he replied. He took Teyas by the elbow and spoke quietly to her. She produced a pouch of dried meat from the satchel tied to her waist, which she proceeded to give to Maggie.

“I’m not really hungry,” she said, scrunching her nose at the strong smoked smell of the meat and waving her hand at them to fend off the do-gooders.

“Eat,” Winn demanded.

“Can you ever just ask me to do something, instead of ordering me around?” she asked.

He frowned. “Eat…please.”

“No. I’m not hungry.” She tossed her braid back and turned her shoulder to him, hiding the smile on her lips. He put the meat to her mouth and reached for her head with his other hand as if he meant to shove it down her throat, and she smacked him playfully away. “Ok, ok! I’ll eat, give it to me!” she giggled.

“Keptchat!” he hissed. He grunted, but she saw him hide his smile as he gave her the dried meat. He watched her chew for a moment and then reached into the small pouch he carried. He fished out her raven and handed it to her.

“My raven! Where did you get it?”

“You dropped it when you were sick, Makedewa found it. Did it come with you when you traveled?”

She darted a glance around to see if anyone listened to their conversation, then ducked her head close to his when she spoke.

“Yes, Marcus gave it to me when I was a little girl. It scares away the bad dreams,” she whispered. A secret smile formed on his lips, and she narrowed her brows, wondering what he was up to.

“Do you know what meaning my name has, in your English words?” he asked, his eyes alight, teasing as he gazed down at her.

She shook her head.

“No, why?”

“When I was a young boy, I had dreams that caused me to scream in my sleep. One night my mother took me outside, and she pointed to a great black bird that sat in a tree next to our yehakin. She said the bird would cure my madness and protect me from evil. Since that day, I have been known as Winkeohkwet, The Raven.”

Her mouth dropped open at his story as he smiled.

“Fear not, little one. This Raven will always protect you. He has loved you forever.”

Her heart pounded wildly as he stood up, the voice of Marcus filling her ears.

“It’s a raven, a great brave bird. The raven keeps safe those he loves.”

“Well,” she sniffed, “how do I know he loves me? He just met me!”

Marcus chuckled.

“He’s always known ye, lamb. He’s loved ye forever.”

She shuddered despite the warmth but managed to smile weakly back at him all the same as he dared a quick kiss to the tip of her nose.

Winn left her side to clasp arms with a man near the doorway as a melee ensued, with the two men standing nearly head to head amidst the crowded room. Winn wore a brown tunic over leggings, with tall moccasin boots covering his limbs up to the knees, a living enticement to illicit thoughts as he stood there oblivious of his charm. His hair flowed loose down his back, unencumbered by the usual braid, and she could see the side of his head above his ear was still shaved close. Maggie smiled thinking of how she had helped him with it.

The stranger grinned broadly in greeting, and Maggie could see the gray woolen breeches he wore against a royal blue waistcoat when she caught a glimpse through the crowd. Tall knee-high boots covered his feet, different from the other men who wore flat shoes with square metal buckles. His thick curling dark hair was pulled back with a blue ribbon at his nape. Taller than the others, but standing straight and proud, he was thick through his shoulders and unintentionally demanded a presence from those around him.

The men were too far away for her to hear any of their words, embroiled in such a conversation that Winn took to using his hands to illustrate his speech, and the stranger responded with his own gestures. Hands planted on hips, body arched, the stranger threw his head back and laughed, then thumped Winn boldly over his shoulders while Winn held a boyish grin on his own face.

Maggie rose up off the bench, pleased to find her legs were steady again and her vision seemed clear instead of like a swirling typhoon. Winn met her gaze from where he stood talking to the stranger, cocking his head inquisitively at her, then smiling back when she nodded reassurance to him.

The healer motioned Maggie closer with a tilt of her head and a smile, and Maggie tore her gaze away from Winn and approached her rather than interrupt the men. The curly-haired girl brushed by Maggie on her way out, the child sobbing with his little legs wrapped around her middle and his pudgy hands twisted in the girl’s apron.

“Hello,” Maggie smiled. The healer nodded. She clenched the front of her white apron and wiped her hands clean, her linen stained with the bloody remnants of previous tasks from the day. Her hair was a bright shade of gold that laid in a thick braid down her back, a few loose strands of gray at her temples the only testament to her age.

“You must be this Fire Heart I hear of. Welcome, dear. I am pleased to finally meet you. You’ve caused quite a stir in the village, yes?”

The woman held a twinkle in her eye as she gazed at Maggie, the corners of her thin lips turned up in a smile. She had an odd lilt to her voice, not quite the same formal English accent as Maggie had heard the other townsfolk speak with, but something different altogether. Her words, although innocent in appearance, sounded laced with knowing, as if she held some secret knowledge she wished to share.

“Why, yes, I guess I have,” Maggie replied evenly. Finola winked and tittered with laughter as she turned and dumped the tongs into a copper pot beneath the table.

“Does my grandson treat you well?”

“Your grandson? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh? Winkeohkwet is so full of himself now, he does not speak of his grandmother? They call me the Pale Witch in his village. Here, I am Mistress Finola, a healer,” she said, casting a wink at Maggie. “Witch is a word we do not speak loudly in this time, dearest.” Finola turned away to tend to a potential customer and smiled an apology to Maggie.

Maggie felt the color drain from her face at her words. Finola was the Pale Witch? Finola knew about the Bloodstones! She wished she could speak privately with her, if only for a few minutes, but she knew the conversation would be too risky around the English ears.

She felt the gentle pressure of a hand on the small of her back. Winn returned to her side before she made a fool of herself by getting sick again, and she gave him a terse smile. The man he had spoken to earlier accompanied him. The stranger extended his gloved hand to her with a genuine broad grin streaking across his face. She placed her fingertips in his hand, and when she looked up at him to smile in greeting, she noticed his kind blue eyes darted downward and a flush crept up his neck.

“Benjamin, this is Maggie,” Winn said.

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss,” he murmured. “Benjamin Dixon, your servant.” He bent at the waist, a considerable task for the tall man, and pressed her fingers quickly to his lips before he released them. She saw his throat tighten and he swallowed before he raised his head with a stunning grin.

“How long have you lived with the Paspahegh, miss? I cannot recall seeing ye on my last visit to the village,” Benjamin commented.

Her tongue stuck to the dry lining of her mouth, and her back stiffened at the thought of disclosing anything to him. No matter how friendly he seemed to be with Winn, she was fully aware of the history of violence between the English and Indians, and she was still perplexed trying to make sense of their relationship. She suspected time traveling and Bloodstones would stick her right into the category of witch, so she clamped her mouth shut and shrugged demurely in return.

“She is under my protection,” Winn said. He still smiled, but Maggie could see his eyes darken with caution.

“Ye haven’t been raiding, have you?” Benjamin asked. He tilted his head toward Winn and lowered his voice an octave. “You know the folk here willna abide you having a white slave! I beg yer pardon, miss,” he stammered, darting a quick look at Maggie. “Tempers are high today, man! I heard an Indian left with the Elder Morgan two days ago and he hasna been seen since. Do ye know any ‘bout that?”

“I know nothing of it, but I will see to it. I’m sure it is just idle talk,” Winn replied.

“Then take yer rest at my yard tonight, and I shall speak to ye later on it. I think it best for ye to lay low,” Benjamin said, nodding curtly at Maggie. “Especially seeing the womenfolk with ye.”

Winn and Benjamin clasped arms in farewell. Benjamin tipped his head to her and made a quick exit.

“What was that all about?” she asked as soon as he was gone. “And your grandmother? The Pale Witch? That information would have been helpful before we arrived, don’t you think?” Maggie hissed. Winn moved a bit closer, his breath warming her ear when he spoke.

“So there is something you don’t know from your school? I thought you learned all about my people?” he teased. She nudged him with her shoulder in his chest, a little more forcefully than she intended, but she smiled nevertheless when he let out a grunt.

“I don’t know enough, Winn. Not nearly enough,” she sighed.

THEY SETTLED DOWN for the night on Benjamin Dixon’s property, which Winn knew was the safest place to rest. Winn watched Maggie from where he sat across the fire, her smile lighting up the night as much as the flickering flames between them. It was a cool night, one of those unsettled days between fall and winter before the cold overtook the warmth entirely, and Maggie sat huddled next to Teyas with a fur draped over her shoulders. He could tell she was chilled by the way she bit her lower lip, her small white teeth closing down as if to ward off trembling. At some time since they arrived, she had loosened her hair, and now her hand darted up several times to push the wayward waves behind her ears. Her red hair shimmered in the flicker of the fire, amber gold against the curve of her jaw, and he had to subdue the urge to go to her. As soon as Benjamin left and there were no eyes upon them, he would warm her well.

He glanced over at Benjamin, who sat next to Chetan, the two men sharing sips of rum from a shiny metal flask. Winn noticed Benjamin watching Maggie as if he had never seen a white woman captive before. It was not common for the Paspahegh to have slaves, but it was not unheard of either, so Winn was unsure of why Benjamin was so curious about it. It was quite common for other Powhatan tribes to have white slaves, so it should truly be of no consequence.

Benjamin had always been the voice of conscience, the one to point out the good in every situation, even when the outlook was bleak. Winn spent two summers in the care of the Dixon family as a youth, and he and Benjamin became fast friends, despite their obvious differences.

Benjamin continued to watch Maggie across the fire.

“Benjamin,” Winn called. Benjamin broke the stare and looked over at Winn, one eyebrow raised in question. “Sit with me, brother.”

“Ye mean to share my rum, more likely,” Benjamin grinned as he sat down beside Winn. Winn took a swig from the proffered flask, smiling as the burning warmth heated his belly and traveled down to his toes.

“Good drink.”

“Came in on the last ship from England.”

“Ah, well, English are good for something, then.”

“Come now, we’re not all such rakes,” Benjamin grinned, taking a sip. “Speaking of…tell me of the woman. Where did ye steal her from? I cannot help ye if I know nothing of it, and ye know they will want her returned, whoever her kin are.”

“No kin will look for her, I promise you that,” Winn answered truthfully. “She is mine, that is all you must know.”

Benjamin looked back in Maggie’s direction where she sat laughing with Teyas. Winn felt a twinge of unease at the way his friend stared at her. Was it curiosity, or something more in his eyes?

“You’ve never kept a slave woman before, brother.”

They watched her stand, make a shrugging gesture at Teyas, and then rub her belly before she set off toward the woods. Winn stood up.

“I must make sure she’s safe,” Winn muttered, leaving Benjamin with the others. He followed her into the trees, reluctant to let her out of his sight although it was obvious she needed a moment alone.

She had learned to be fast with such things, and Winn caught her as she was righting her dress. She let out a squeak when he snuck up behind her and grabbed her around the waist, but her alarm dissipated as soon as she realized it was him. How he loved to hear her laugh!

“Winn!” she laughed. He kissed the back of her neck.

“I like your hair down,” he murmured against her ear.

As she pressed her face to his chest with a muffled giggle, he kissed her hair, loving the way she fit curled up in his arms. He heard the snap of a branch, and then another, and was stunned when he found the source of the noise as he looked over her shoulder.

Winn saw Benjamin’s face as a pale outline against the evergreens, his mouth parted open, his eyes wide. Winn felt his throat tighten as he met the Englishman’s gaze. Benjamin quickly turned and left.

CHAPTER 19

Maggie was glad Benjamin left before they returned to camp, certain their stolen moment in the forest would be evident on their faces when they returned. Winn showed little surprise his friend retired without seeing them settled, so Maggie brushed off her insecurity and felt no qualm over lying down beside him to sleep. She was restless, however, and thought Winn was in a pleasant enough mood to field her questions, so she turned her curiosity onto him.

“How do you know Benjamin?” she asked. He let out a long sigh and pulled her closer before he answered.

“My uncle sent me to live with the English for a time. I spent two summers with the Dixon family, and Benjamin became my friend.”

“Do you trust him?”

“Benjamin? More than I trust any white man,” he said. “My uncle wanted me to learn the English ways, so I could help in his plan to drive them away. He was not pleased we became friends.” Winn nuzzled her neck and nipped her with his teeth. “Just as he will not be pleased to know I keep a Blooded One here, safe in my arms.”

He looked a little sad at this confession, his eyes darkening, and his hands tightening around her.

“Why does your uncle hate the Blooded Ones so much?” she whispered as they snuggled beneath the furs.

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious, that’s all.”

“It is a story much older than my years. Blooded Ones lived peacefully among the Paspahegh until Opechancanough had his vision. He saw one of them, a Time Walker, end his life, and after that, they were all in danger. My grandmother was spared death and instead banished by my uncle, but this happened before I was born. I have only known her as the Pale Witch, living here with the English, and I visit her as much as I can.”

“So it is true, then, that your father was English?”

Winn shook his head. “My father was white, but not English. He traveled here with Bloodstone magic when he was a boy. Finola told me the tale. They came from a place where they had great long boats to travel far, and his people read from books and wrote in them. Grandmother speaks little of him; I think it pains her to know he is gone.”

“Why did he leave without his wife?”

“I know not, and mother does not speak of it. He used his Bloodstone soon after he wed my mother. After he left, she became second wife to Pepamhu of the Nansemond, and bore my brothers and sister.”

He lifted the necklace from his neck and separated the black feathers that shielded the pendant. In his palm, enclosed in tarnished melted copper, was a tiny Bloodstone charm. She felt his eyes upon her as she slowly reached out to touch it and then jerked back away before she could make contact. She had no idea how it worked and was not willing to test it any further.

“When a raw Bloodstone is used to travel, it binds to the bearer. You can use no other stone to travel,” he said softly. He took her branded hand and turned it over to reveal the healed scar, tracing the delicate knot in an unending twist upon her palm. “I keep this Bloodstone to remind me.”

“To remind you of what, Winn?”

“That my blood is not true Paspahegh. My father was a Norse-Man, and he chose to leave with his Bloodstone before my birth. I need reminder of how worthless all whites are, so I will never waver when it comes time to end them,” he said carefully. “He knows not what he left behind, and I hate him for that. As a boy, I felt anger for the difference in my skin and that of my brothers, and some English called me Half-Man. Children are most cruel to those who are different.”

“A Norseman? You mean a Viking?” she interrupted.

He rubbed her lower back with one warm hand and nodded.

“Some called them Vikings. They were said to control powerful magic.”

“I’d say. Those Bloodstones pack some punch,” she snorted. She chose to avoid the subject of his father, even as her curiosity rose, knowing Winn had conflicted feelings about the man. “So you went to live with your uncle?”

“I was sent to live with Opechancanough and spent many years there as his favorite nephew. It gave me great status, and when I returned to the Paspahegh, I was welcomed. My return to my own people was to serve as War Chief and lead the few left, serving Opechancanough in his plans. I have watched over them, and always have given my loyalty to my Mamanatowick.”

“I thought he was Weroance?” she asked.

“Mamanatowick means Great Weroance, Great Chief of all Powhatan, of all Tsenacommacah lands. He has many names, and that is one.”

“Oh. Sounds like a busy man.”

She ran her finger lightly over the winding tattoo on his torso, an intricate swirl across his ribs that ended below his navel. Although they shared a growing intimacy, she remained in awe of his powerful body, each muscle and sinew honed by hunting and fighting, strong yet yielding beneath her touch.

“Does this have meaning?” she asked, placing her palm flat against his navel.

“Some objected to my presence when I went to live with Opechancanough, since I was son of a Time Walker. He marked me to silence them.”

“I don’t understand.”

He sighed.

“Those born to the Weroance bloodlines, like Opechancanough and my mother, may never have such a mark placed on their bodies. Only common men decorate their bodies. I could never be Weroance because of the Time Walker’s blood in my veins. He marked me to show the people I am one of them. War Chief is the most honor a common man could hope for in his life.”

He placed his hand over hers, and traced over a part of the tattoo near his hip.

“This one, here,” he said, “Is for the first man I killed. This part, here, is for the day I became a man. And this, this one shows I am different, that I am not true Paspahegh, that I carry the blood of the whites.”

“Does it bother you? Being marked that way, I mean?”

She felt his shoulders shrug, and he made a dismissive sound.

“Once it did, but no longer. It is part of me now.”

He grinned, and pulled her snugly against him. She buried her clenched hands next to his skin, giggling when he jumped at her cold touch.

“Here, let me warm you,” he murmured. He clasped his larger hands over hers, and gently blew into them to drench her chilled fingers. Dipping his head down, he kissed her knuckles with a smile.

“What does your history say of the Norse-men?” he asked, very softly. She saw his throat tighten and his eyes widen a bit, his brows raised. Her heart lurched at his change, the way his face filled like an expectant boy, almost childish as he asked an innocent question. She paused before she spoke, hoping to say the right words to ease his mind and help heal his ache.

“They were fierce warriors. Stories were written about their journeys, legends, really, that children still read in my time, about all their brave adventures.” She pressed her lips to his skin and threaded a lock of his dark hair in her fingers. “Tall, strong, like you. You must get your blue eyes from your father.”

She felt his hands tighten around her, only for a moment, a gentle reminder that his feelings for his father were much more complicated than a tale could absolve.

“So the dog gave me eyes like the sky, and then ran away as a coward. Brave? Humph.”

Maggie wondered if he could ever let go of the ache, the depth of his feelings apparent as they ran so close below the surface, the hurt little boy buried so far he was nearly forgotten. She said nothing, giving him the choice to continue, barely surprised when he nestled his head to her shoulder and remained silent.

She stroked his hair as his breathing finally slowed into sleep, comforting him in the only way she knew how.

Ghosts of the future haunted her that night, begging acknowledgement, refusing to be put to sleep.

She placed her raven on the ground as she played on the floor of the old barn. No one would bother her there. Grandpa had no use for the space, but she liked it. It was a secret place, her hiding spot, a place to call her own among the world of adults.

Hinges creaked, and she saw the wood plank door open. A pair of round blue eyes peered at her between the slats.

“Can I come in, Maggie?” he asked. She rolled her eyes. It was the boy, Marcus’s son. He wasn’t so bad.

“Oh, I guess. Hurry up and close the door.”

He slithered in and plopped down beside her.

“Ach, crap, I cut my finger on the stupid door. Gimme your sock, will ya?”

“No, I’m not giving you anything! Go get a Band-Aid, or keep bleeding, I don’t care!” she sniped. He shrugged.

When he saw her raven sitting solitary in the dirt, he fished in his pocket for a moment until he produced his own treasure.

The boy held it up, a wide toothless grin stretching across his face.

“See? Da gave you the raven, but I have the eagle. It’s better than the raven,” he bragged.

“No it’s not!” she hissed.

“Aye, it is! My Da said so!”

“You’re a liar, and I’m telling!” she shrieked. She jumped up and left him in the dirt.

It was the last time she saw him. Grandpa said not to speak of it, poor Marcus could not bear it. His little son, disappeared without a trace. The police said the mother must have taken him.

Divorced spouses kidnap their kids all the time. It was just one of those sad things that happen sometimes.

She wiped the tears from her eyes and burrowed in closer to Winn. Memories like that, well, they were best forgotten. There was surely enough trouble in this time to keep her occupied.

Poor Marcus. They never found his son, and Marcus carried on somehow. She hoped he did not suffer now in the same manner. If only she could find a way to tell him she was alive, that she missed him. Then perhaps the leaving of him would not ache so much.

CHAPTER 20

Winn placed A pile of kindling onto the fire, stirring it with a long stick. Embers of the morning sun darted over the horizon, yet the moon still shone above. Although the men had been awake for some time, they let the women sleep longer, knowing they would need rest to travel on as the day grew warmer.

Makedewa sat on a log near the fire, tossing in bits of a branch he picked apart in his hands. His demeanor was unchanged from his usual angry mask, the same scowl he wore upon waking and the one he walked with each day.

Winn wondered if his younger brother would ever find happiness, or at least something to occupy his anger other than planning the next raid on the English. Oftentimes rash, known among the villagers as a hothead, Winn knew the warrior was a much deeper man than his disguise portrayed. Unlike Chetan, who laughed and loved with no care what others thought, Makedewa lacked such confidence. Winn wished he would not suffer so much for his own pride.

“Nemattanew killed Morgan White. I know not why, but I am sure of it.” Makedewa continued to stare into the fire as he spoke, his gaze unwavering.

“Did he admit as much to you?” Winn asked. Makedewa nodded.

“He said the English will never find the body.”

Winn let out his breath in a sigh as he shook his head. It served no purpose to agitate the English at this time, and Nemattanew was aware of that fact more so than any Powhatan brave. With one rash act, the foolish warrior had given the English cause to mistrust them all, making it even more dangerous for the Paspahegh to remain cordial with the settlers.

“We should return to the village today. Ready the horses and pack our supplies.” Winn stared hard at Makedewa. “My uncle will hear of this, and he will not be pleased. I hope Nemattanew has not brought his wrath upon us.”

Makedewa grunted, and set off to dismantle the campsite. Winn looked toward the cabin where Benjamin lived. He wondered if he should wake the man to bid him goodbye. Glancing down at Maggie, sleeping peacefully beneath his furs, he decided against it. The image of the Englishman spying on them in the woods made his chest tighten, sparking his ire.

No, it was better this way. Let things cool between them before they met again. There had never been anything they could not find agreement on, and although Benjamin mediated between the English and Paspahegh, he was still a loyal friend. Winn wondered if things now had changed. He was willing to wager they did, after seeing how Benjamin stared at his woman.

His woman.

Winn tickled her neck until her sleepy jade eyes opened and she smiled up at him, despite him rousing her from her dreams. He kissed her gently along her ear and buried his face in the sweet meadow scent of her hair for a moment.

“Time to wake, ntehem. We leave soon.”

He resisted the urge to melt back down into the furs with her, instead taking her hand to help her to her feet.

CHAPTER 21

She was happy to be back in the village. It was almost funny that she now viewed it as the height of civilization, especially since she never thought she would survive a week within the culture. Yet after she had been exposed to the way the English lived, she was quite content to remain among the Paspahegh. In fact, she would be happy to stay anywhere, as long as Winn were there.

As she sat with Teyas near the Great Fire awaiting the start of the evening feast, Maggie noticed the sounds of whispered uproar throughout the village. She looked up to see what they were fussing about. Across the thruway near the horse corral, a group of men entered the clearing.

White men.

She sat up straighter and stuck her fisted hands in her lap, her eyes searching the warriors who gathered for any sign of hostility. Were the men friends, or enemies?

Their group consisted of a half-dozen Englishmen, all dressed in similar knee-high breeches and linen shirts, wielding rifles which they kept slung over their backs in what Maggie perceived must be a less threatening gesture than if they carried them outright. On entering the village, one bold man led the others, flanked by the reluctant entourage who followed with caution. It was Benjamin Dixon.

Shouts rose from the men, and for a moment Maggie was terrified there would be a violent response. Her fear dissipated quickly when she saw a warrior break from the crowd of men to approach the visitors. Benjamin clasped arms with the warrior and Maggie saw a broad smile crease his face.

The warrior who welcomed him was none other than Winn.

“Who are those men?” Maggie nudged Teyas, who was watching the exchange as well.

“You know Benjamin Dixon. He is a friend to us. He brings many of the English with him today,” Teyas answered with a frown. “Thomas Martin is with him as well, he is the fat one next to Benjamin. I hope they do not need more corn, we have little to share,” she sighed.

“Do they always need supplies?”

“Most times. They are lazy people, they grow little food on their own.”

“They look like trouble,” Maggie said, her voice escalating a pitch. It made her nervous to see the English visit the village, no matter what pretense they offered, since she knew full well how they abused the kindness of the Indians.

Teyas shrugged and shushed her. Winn approached, Benjamin walking in stride beside him. Winn led the white men by the fire next to where the warriors gathered, escorting them to a place of honor apart from the others. Not quite as welcoming as Winn but not hostile, either, the warriors made space for the guests and settled back into the spirit of the feast. The hollow thud of a drum resounded, and the interruption seemed forgotten.

Winn looked in her direction from across the fire where he stood with Benjamin. Their eyes met for a moment, and Maggie glimpsed an edge of something unsettling in his gaze. There was no acknowledgement in his wooden stare, but she could see the muscles in his crossed arms tighten and the way his back stiffened at her inquisitive perusal of the strangers. He quickly broke contact and turned back to the visitor.

“Will Winn eat with us?” Maggie asked. Teyas shook her head.

“No, he will eat with the men.”

“Is there some rule that says I can’t talk to him now?”

“Shush, Maggie! No, no rule. But we wait to be spoken to at this feast,” the girl hissed back, jabbing her in the rib with her elbow. “He will take you to his yehakin soon, be patient!”

Maggie scowled as her cheeks flushed at the implication. She ignored the jibe and continued questioning the girl, curious to glean information about the visitors.

“I just want to talk to him,” she said.

“You must wait to be spoken to! He will be angry if you go to him now!”

“Well, he can be angry at me later. I just want a second to talk to him.”

Maggie stood up, but Teyas was fast on her heels and grabbed her by the back of her dress before she could go very far.

“Teyas, let go!” she hissed as she tried to shake the other woman off.

“Sit down!” Teyas pleaded. Panic laced her words. Maggie suddenly felt bad for causing a scene, and let Teyas pull her back down to sit on the grass. A few of the other woman shot them hard looks and shook their heads.

“Ah, kemata tepahta! Now Winn sees us!” Teyas groaned.

Winn was staring at them from across the fire, as was the visitor at his side. Benjamin tapped Winn’s arm and pointed at the quarreling women in question. Maggie watched as Winn said something tense to the man and waved his question off, shaking his head, while pushing a bowl of food into the man’s hands as if to distract him. Winn clapped Benjamin on the back in a friendly manner and then spoke again. Maggie wished she could hear what they were saying, but the distance was too great and it was enough just to decipher the expressions on their faces. Winn left the visitor and turned to one of the warriors that flanked his sides, his attention shifting for the moment. He uttered some direction to the warrior before he left his position, his destination clear to both Maggie and Teyas.

Maggie prepared to face his onslaught, unaware of what to expect since she knew little of what stoked the obvious temper he was in. She glanced back across the fire and noticed Benjamin was staring straight at her, confusion etched on his face as he squinted to see her in the glare of the setting sun. When their eyes met his mouth fell open, and she quickly ducked her head. No good could come of making contact with the visitors in front of the villagers.

Maggie felt Teyas nudge her in warning before Winn grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.

“Ouch! What the hell-“

“Be silent. You will go back to my yehakin. Now!” he demanded, his words uttered hoarse and low next to her ear. She allowed him to hold her upper arm, but turned to meet his steel gaze.

“Why? What is going on?”

“Go, ntehem. I will meet you soon.”

An unsettling surge of fear at the look in his eyes challenged her resolve, as she could see Winn was worried about something. It was not like him to show such emotion in front of others, and with a deepening sense of unease Maggie realized he was afraid. Of what, she had no notion.

“Teyas, come! You will eat with Maggie and tend her wound,” he growled. His sister immediately obeyed, taking Maggie’s hand and urging her back toward the yehakin. Maggie let out a sigh and succumbed to being led away. Winn stood rooted in place, watching them go. Maggie saw Nemattanew approach and was glad to leave.

“Wait!”

Maggie swung around at the clear English plea. Her eyes shifted to Benjamin, who was standing next to Winn and looking at the women expectantly.

“Please, Miss, if I could have a word with you? Surely you do not mind, Winn?” Benjamin asked. Behind the Englishman stood two other older men, dressed in similar attire but both equally as interested by the astonished looks on their faces.

“The woman was wounded by a bear. She needs her wound tended,” Winn replied tersely.

“Well, yes, of course! But it will only take a moment, my friend,” Benjamin insisted. “Can ye tell me how ye came to be in these parts, Miss?”

Maggie thought a simple white lie was enough to quell Benjamin’s curiosity and show the man he need not worry that she was being kept against her will, so she eagerly responded.

“I don’t remember. I must have hit my head. The last thing I remember was Winn saving me from a bear attack.”

Winn froze at her words and Benjamin’s mouth fell open.

“’Tis as I said, Dixon, she is my niece,” another man announced.

The man Teyas had called Thomas Martin stepped forward toward Maggie. Towheaded and stocky, but not in a pleasing manner, the gentleman pushed past his companions to approach her. Maggie held her ground as he scrutinized her with tiny piercing black eyes, making her feel like a piece of prime meat on display. The urge to inform him he was sadly mistaken crossed her mind, but she opted to keep her mouth shut for the moment. She looked helplessly to Winn, fully aware she could not tell the Englishman where she truly came from. In light of the manner which Winn barely contained his anger, she stepped a pace away from the man instead.

“She is not your niece,” Winn said.

Thomas cocked his hands on his hips and spit on the ground at her feet with a nod. Maggie noticed his gun shift slightly forward on his shoulder in a way it would be easier to grasp.

“Of course she is. This girl is my kin, I think I would know my own dead brother’s sweet child! I heard word she was lost in the river on the way to Jamestown. My thanks for returning her to me safely,” the man said, pausing before he added, with a side glance at Benjamin, “my friend.”

“No, I’m not your niece,” Maggie stammered, completely confused as to what was going on. Nemattanew stepped forward and placed a hand on the Englishman’s shoulder.

“You will take the woman away?” Nemattanew interrupted, suddenly interested in the discussion.

“Well, yes, I paid a great deal of money to bring her here, and I can’t rightly leave her with you sav—with your people. You don’t expect me to buy her back, do you?” Thomas snorted, the thought evidently causing him much distress.

“Then take her.” Nemattanew made the offering, his eyes fixed on Winn.

Her breath caught in her throat as she waited for Winn’s response.

“You forget she is not yours to give, Nemattanew,” Winn said.

“Then I will ride to speak with Opechancanough, I am sure he will wish to return the woman to her kin,” Nemattanew replied. “Our Weroance wishes nothing but peace between our people, Thomas Martin.”

Veins stood out like cords on Winn’s arms, and Maggie saw the way his eyes narrowed as he stared at Nemattanew. His hand flexed open then closed into a fist at his side.

“Then ride, Nemattanew,” Winn answered. “But until then, she stays here.”

She felt Teyas squeeze her hand, and saw the look she exchanged with Winn. She did not protest when Teyas nodded to the men and then proceeded to drag her back to the yehakin.

Once they were safely inside, Teyas began to pace back and forth, stopping every so often to peer out through the hide-covered doorway. When Maggie tried to ask a question, Teyas raised a hand in dismissal and urged her silence. Suddenly, Teyas stopped pacing and joined Maggie where she stood at the back of the room.

Winn parted the bear hide and ducked into the room. He gave Teyas a short command in his own language and his sister quickly left the yehakin. Alone with Winn and his flaring temper, Maggie braced herself and let him approach.

“That man is Thomas Martin. He claims you as his kin. He wants you returned to him.”

She felt faint as his words struck her.

“But you know I’m not his niece.”

“I know.”

“But Winn—”

“Listen!” he hissed, “There is no time to argue! Nemattanew has left the village to seek permission from my uncle to give you to the English. If he returns with orders from the Weroance, the Council will support him, and they will release you from me.”

“Release me?”

“You became my prisoner when I found you,” he said quietly, his eyes dipping down away from her stare. “It is my right to keep you or cast you off. Only the Great Weroance can compel me to release you.”

“Your prisoner?” Her back stiffened. “Is that what I am to you?” she replied, the words slipping from her tongue laced with anger and betrayal. It shattered her to know he would rid himself so easily of her after what they had shared.

“You know you are more to me than that,” he growled.

“Am I?” she whispered, afraid to hear his answer even as she demanded it. She saw his fists clench at his sides.

“You are. Have I not showed you what you are to me?”

She remained silent. What could she say to him? As much as she wanted to hear him declare his love for her, there were much more pressing matters to deal with.

“Would your uncle send me away, against your wishes?” she asked, dipping her head down to avoid his stare.

“When Nemattanew tells him the English claim you, he will order me to give you to them. My uncle seeks to keep friendship with the English above all else, he will not risk angering them. If the English wanted Teyas, or Chetan, or even Ahi Kekeleksu, he would give them away. It only matters to him to keep peace right now.”

She glanced up at him, seeing his skin flushed red from his neck to his ears, his jaw clamped and his veins standing out like bowstrings.

“I thought your uncle hated them.”

“He does. I do. But for now we give them friendship. It is part of his plan. I cannot tell you more than that.” He shook as he glared at her, every muscle across his chest rigid as his hands tightened, his knuckles white from the pressure. He raised his arms as if to draw her close, then thought better of it and thrust them back to his sides, turning his back to her. “I have no choice but to obey my uncle, or bring his anger on my village.”

She made the rash decision and crossed the space between them, desperate to draw something other than anger from him. Placing her hands against his back, she slowly slipped them around his waist and rested her cheek against his shoulder. His taut muscles relaxed at her touch, and she felt him take her fist and hold it tight to his chest.

“I know what happens to the English, Winn,” she whispered. “I know he plans to attack them, and that he will succeed. Will you be a part of that? Will you just send me to them, and slaughter me with the rest of the English when the time comes?”

He turned rapidly around at her words, his hands closing around her face to capture her gaze. Blazing blue eyes narrowed and brows squared as she met his stare.

“How do you know this?” he asked, his voice strained and hushed, as if he were afraid of ears that listened.

“In my time children learn history. I was taught about the Indian Massacre in school, Winn.”

“Indian Massacre? Is that what your people call it?” he hissed.

“It was – it will be a massacre!” she shot back, unafraid of his rising fury. “You’re going to kill hundreds of people, women and children! God, how can I love you when you would do such a thing?”

“Love? You would not love a man who protects his people? You would not love a warrior who protects you?” he shouted. She tried to move away, but his hands kept firm around her face as his slanted blue eyes bore into hers, his features clenched and his veins standing out like rawhide against his arms. She choked back tears, unsure of why such words spilled from her mouth but unable to stop them.

“If your idea of loving me is sending me to the English, then no. At least give me the Bloodstone and send me home before you massacre them all!”

“No!” he roared. His lips silenced her next protest. It was no seductive kiss like his prior attentions, nor a gentle invitation. It closed her down, consumed her denial, and then he broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers, the sound of their shallow panting filling the void their passion had left. She lifted her lips to him again, but after dropping a series of kisses along her eyes and cheeks and chin, he grasped her face once more and forced her to listen.

“You belong to me. I will not let you go,” he whispered. “You will stay here while I go to speak to my uncle. I will not let Nemattanew be the only voice my uncle hears.”

“Don’t leave.”

“Stay here until I return.” His tone was hoarse but firm, issuing yet another demand. She shook her head furiously at his words, refusing to submit. He pressed his lips to her hair, murmuring words that danced to her ears like the melody of a song.

“I will always come for you, ntehem. Do you not know that by now?” His voice thick, he drew her close, pressing his face to her neck. She felt the smoldering anger flicker out as he held her in his arms. “As long as I breathe, I will hold you here,” he said, taking her hand to press it against his heart. “I lie to my men, I disobey my Weroance, and curse you, woman, I will do it again!”

She buried her head against his chest in that shallow valley beneath his throat, where his bronzed skin felt softer than the lines of his muscled chest. He murmured words of love in soft Paspahegh, and although she did not know the meaning of them she loved the intent, and she nestled tighter against him.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she said softly, fearing his answer but driven to say it nonetheless. He cupped her face in his hand and ran his thumb over her pink bottom lip, parted it with the pressure, and then gently kissed it.

“You are worth everything to me,” he murmured. “I have nothing to give you, no fine clothes such as you once wore, no land to call my own but where we might rest our heads at night. Can you love a man such as this?”

She placed her hand over his heart, and he covered it with his own.

“I love this man beside me, and that is all that matters,” she whispered.

He turned his head to her palm and kissed her cupped hand, pulling her close to fit against his broad chest. There would be no other for her, she realized. The warmth coursing through her body from his embrace chased away even her deepest fears, smothering any lingering doubt between them.

“For my people, when words of love are spoken between a man and woman, they are married in the eyes of the village,” he said softly. “You are my wife, in here, in my heart…if you will have me.”

She nodded, choking back a sob as her tears flowed.

“Say the words to me, and I will have you.”

He brought her hands to his lips and gently kissed them, his eyes never wavering from hers.

“Now you will feel no rain, for I will shelter you.

Now you will feel no cold, for I will warm you.

Now you will never be lonely, for we will be together.

There is only one life before us.

Now we walk as one.”

His lips tasted of sweet brandy when he kissed her, the kiss of a man she now called husband.

They both heard Makedewa call for Winn at the same time and saw his shadow across the doorway.

“Nexasi, ntehem. Lapich knewel,” he said softly.

“Tell me what that means,” she whispered. His lips formed a smile that failed to reach his eyes as he answered her request.

“Be safe, my heart. I will see you again.”

CHAPTER 22

Winn sat perched on his pony, ready to follow the English back to their town. He glared at the man who claimed to be her uncle, and wondered what game he played as he snapped the reins and sent the horse forward. Winn knew little of the man called Thomas Martin, and he was certain Benjamin had no idea the man was lying about Maggie being his niece. Perhaps the man truly believed Maggie was his lost niece, but Winn suspected there was something afoul in the Englishman’s claim and Benjamin was caught in the middle of it. Benjamin had proven his friendship to the Paspahegh and visited Winn often, so he felt some trust for him, but he had none of that confidence for the rest of the English.

Damn that interfering Nemattanew, that sneaky spy his uncle trusted so much. Forced to make a decision in front of his people and the English, none of the choices were acceptable to him. Give her to the English who claim her as kin, or refuse to relinquish his right to her as his captive. Either choice would lead to a similar outcome: Nemattanew would inform Opechancanough of the Time Walker in their midst, and his uncle would send her away or demand her blood.

Honor his uncle, and slay the Red Woman. Use the Bloodstone to return her to her own time. Release her to the English. He would choose none of those options.

Finally, when his head cleared, he made his decision. It was a decision that would gain him no support from the English or his kin, but the only one he could bear to live with, the one that kept her safe in his arms and protected from the rising storm he knew would come.

He would see the English safely back to town and then ride to speak to his uncle. If his uncle refused his request to keep her, he would return to the village and take Maggie far away. He had no plan beyond that, not yet willing to face the consequence of betraying his Weroance, but knowing his path was set nonetheless. It was the only way. Winn hoped his uncle would forget about the woman, and leave off with the notion she needed to die like the rest of the Time Walkers. Surely it was not a woman Time Walker that would someday take his life. The prophecy could be wrong. After all, his uncle had once spared the Pale Witch.

“My thanks to you for your escort, Winn,” Benjamin offered as he rode up beside him. His larger, leaner mount fell in step with the sturdy war pony Winn rode. Winn nodded in response without turning his head to the other man, his gaze still focused on Thomas Martin’s straight back.

“She is not the niece of Thomas Martin, my friend.”

Benjamin frowned.

“Of course she is. Who else would she be? Surely Martin knows his own kin.”

“I know not his purpose, but I know the truth. You have my word on this,” Winn replied, trying to use an assurance that Benjamin would identify with.

“You know I trust ye above all others, Winn, but on this I think ye are mistaken. The man recognized his niece, and it all makes sense. Who else would she be? It is not as if she dropped from the sky!”

Winn snorted. “No. Of course not,” he grumbled. Not the sky, but that assertion was not too far off.

“Surely ye do not object to returning her to us? You know what that would mean.”

He ground his teeth in the back of his jaw at the implied consequence and nodded to the man. He could not antagonize the English at this point or risk his uncle’s wrath, and until Maggie was safely hidden away, he was bound to pacify them. Of all the whites to challenge him, how could his friend Benjamin be the one? They had played together as children and he hoped to save him somehow from what was to come, but if his friend posed an obstacle to Maggie, he would kill him without hesitation.

“I wish no war with your people, friend. But I will not release her,” he said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. “She must stay until Opechancanough gives his decision.” He omitted the fact that no matter what decision his uncle rendered, he planned to take Maggie far away. Even if by some miracle the Weroance refused to return her to the English, Winn knew it was impossible his uncle would not demand her sacrifice. The old man believed too strongly in his visions to consider any alternative when it came to a Time Walker.

“Well then,” Benjamin said quickly. “Jack-of-a-Feather is a swift rider, I’m sure he will return soon with permission to return her to us. Will ye give her up then?”

“No.”

“You’re acting a fool. Ye cannot keep a good Englishwoman as a slave! I thought ye were better than that!” Benjamin snapped. “She will be returned to us, now or on order of your uncle.”

“She is no slave,” Winn growled, his ire beginning to rise. Benjamin pushed him too far. “I found her, it is my right to keep her.”

“If you found her as ye say, then why are ye so sure she is not Martin’s niece? The woman fell overboard during a storm on the way to Jamestown, who can say for sure who she is? She must have lost her wits when she fell from the ship, and she admits she cannot recall anything before ye saved her.” Benjamin cast him a pained glare. “I feel that there is more to this than ye have revealed to me. If ye went raiding and stole the girl, I will not judge ye. I just did not think ye did such things. Tell me the truth, and I can assure Martin she is not his niece.”

“I did not steal her.”

“So she must be the woman from the ship. The Virginia Company sent them here to find husbands among our men.”

“A stupid English plan,” Winn muttered, ignored by Benjamin as he rattled on.

“Why will ye not tell me the truth? I thought more of our friendship than that.”

Winn noticed the way Benjamin squinted as he waited for the answer, and his hands clenched at the implication of his words. He could say he was angry Benjamin questioned his honor, but he knew the English thought his people little more than animals.

“She is here under my protection.”

Benjamin let out a sigh.

“I have no doubt ye protected her,” Benjamin muttered. “I’ve never seen ye so taken by a woman.”

Winn quickly turned his head to the other man.

“Yes. I know what you see. Is that what English men do, spy on each other like snakes?” he asked, his words slow to form as he suppressed the sickness rising in his gut.

“I am sorry. I should not have followed ye. But I thought I knew ye better than that. Better than a lout who would take advantage of a helpless woman! What were ye thinking? Ye know ye’ve ruined her, no decent Englishman will take her to wife after ye tire of her.” Benjamin said.

Winn ducked his head and his lips formed a scowl in response as he glared at the Englishman. Unwilling to pacify Benjamin any further, he decided his journey with his old friend was over.

“You know nothing of me, Englishman,” he growled. “We gave you food and supplies. Take your beggars and go back to your village. Think what you will. As for the woman, I keep her. Try to take her, and I will kill you the same as any other.” Winn swung his horse around in a circle, and let out a fierce howl that pierced the silent night sky. He glared at the man he once called brother.

No Englishman will ever take her from me, he vowed, and with that thought, he knew he would risk everything to keep her. He pictured his knife slicing through the belly of his friend Benjamin and then the acrid stench of his innards as they slid through his hands. A painful wave of anger surged through his chest and squeezed the air from his lungs.

Benjamin had been his friend since they were too young to notice the difference in their skins, loyal and true in brotherhood nearly as much as his own blood brothers. Of all men to stand between him and Maggie, would it be Benjamin? He was the only white man he wished to save from what was to come. Until now.

He was glad Maggie was safe back in the village, away from the English, waiting for him to return to her.

His heart thudded a steady beat, and he could feel the sweat break across his skin and moisten his clenched palms against the leather reins. Numbness settled through him like the unwavering truth, a truth that would change his life forever, and that of all those that loved him. He would bide his time and steal his woman away. The course he chose would settle his own fate and he would not be able to turn back, but he realized his path had been sealed the moment he looked into her shining jade eyes and fought the brown bear.

He galloped away from the English and turned his horse toward the river. He would take the fastest route, and get to his uncle before Nemattanew could poison his mind further.

His woman. Maggie was his wife. And he would keep her.

CHAPTER 23

She sank back and pulled a thick fur around her shoulders as she sat listening to the beat of drums in the village. The rhythmic thud kept time with the chants of the warriors, their cries of thanks echoing through the bright autumn night and leaving a hollow emptiness within her. She thought of the tender words he murmured against her hair when they slept, and the way his breath felt against her skin. The memory only served to deepen her longing for him and brought the sting of tears to her eyes.

She thought she might suffer remorse for abandoning her own time, and although there was a hint of sadness at never returning, the notion of living her life with Winn ran sweeter through her soul. Relief washed over her like a waterfall, the decision made, carrying her doubts and fears away as she looked forward to their future. Perhaps in some cosmic plane there was a reason for her journey to the past, one they would never discover, and if it was nothing more than the purpose of bringing two hearts together, she could live with that.

She swiped the back of her hand over her eyes. Winn would return for her, she was certain. Hell, she made her own rules and ran her own life in her time, and as such, she should be well equipped to survive on her own in the past for a few days without him. She needed to learn the Paspahegh ways, and learn to be strong when he was away.

Cold, hungry, and more than the least bit agitated by Winn leaving, she decided to solve all the problems that she could and worry over the things she could not change later. She could fix cold and hungry, but there was little else for her to do but keep occupied until her husband returned.

Her husband, she thought, and smiled.

She crawled over to her basket of clothes and pulled out her soft faded blue jeans. Torn at the knee, but still serviceable, she pulled them on beneath her doeskin dress. Next were her suede work boots, which she covered with her fur leggings and tied tight with rawhide cords. Satisfied with her work thus far, she examined her parka. Streaked with blood and slashed from shoulder to waist, it would offer little protection so she left it beside the fire. She could not fathom any useful task for her wristwatch, but she slid it over her wrist anyway.

The night the Bloodstone took her she had been unusually bereft of any technology in her pockets such as a cell phone, not that it would have done her much good in her current predicament. She tightened the laces of her boots and double knotted them, then grabbed a traveling satchel made of beaver bladder with a long strap. She crossed the strap over her shoulder and settled the bag at her waist, then scourged for the few remaining bits of food left in the yehakin. There was not much to choose from since they expected to eat at the feast, but Winn usually kept at least some dried meat and corn cakes to munch on and she added what she found to her sack.

She peeked out the yehakin and saw the villagers engrossed in the dance, and the sounds of the beating drums muffled her footsteps as she left. She crossed behind the yehakin without looking back, thrusting a fist across her cheek when a tear spilled as she made her way toward the corral. Spending time with the horses would soothe her, as it always did, and bundled up snugly as she was she could spend the night with them instead of alone in the yehakin.

“Damn it,” she muttered. She shook her head when tender thoughts collided, ones of a soft gentle mouth caressing her skin, a firm hand that held her against his heart, the way he whispered endearments against her ear and sent shivers down deep in her belly.

She cursed as she tripped over a fallen branch, and stopped to regain her sense of direction. She could still hear the hollow thud of the drums and the cries of songs from the village, and she could see the glimmer of the bonfire across the way when she looked back. Had she been so distracted by daydreams that she passed by the lean-to?

With her ears filled by the fading pounding of the drums, she did not notice a snapping of forest debris on the path behind her until the footsteps were upon her. The hair pricked up on the back of her neck and she smelled his dank scent before she swung around to confront her stalker.

Nemattanew stood crouched behind her, slowly rising to his full height as she glared at him. He was planted between her and the village, her only escape being the woods. She moved her hand to the knife at her waist for reassurance and glared at the man as she waited for his next move. Obviously, he had lied about his intent to leave the village.

He took a step toward her, and she backed away an equal amount of paces.

“So the Red Woman stays here.”

“Just go away, leave me alone,” she said, her voice tapering off as it wavered. “Winn will be back soon,” she lied. She darted a glance to her rear to see where to escape, dismayed to see only dense brush and no discernible trail.

They both knew it to be a lie, and a grin stretched over his lips.

“I saw him leave the village. He goes to ask for your life, but we both know he will not get it. What then, Red Woman?”

“You should worry what he will do when he finds you bothering me!”

“No,” he growled. “You should worry if I will kill you now, or let you suffer. Perhaps I will keep you until he returns, and let him watch you bleed from my knife.” He reached out and snatched her wrist painfully, turning it over. He made a deep growling sound as he glared at the scar on her palm

“Stay away from me!” she shouted, wrenching away from him.

“Winn truly hides a Time Walker?” He raised his head to the stars and let out a chilling howl of laughter. “He thinks to keep you? What a fool he is!”

She fumbled backward and felt the stab of a branch in her ribs and leaves brush her neck.

“Run,” he grinned, his words dripping with excitement and malice. “Run as fast as you can. I give you five paces before I gut you.” He traced a path on his own chest with one finger from the base of his throat down to his navel. “I will see great honor when I bring your head to my Weroance.”

She believed every ounce of his threat and took off in a sprint. The satchel bounced against her kidney as she darted through the trees, wincing at the sting of branches tearing at her face and neck. She jumped over a rotted fallen tree and lost her balance, falling to her knees on the pine-needle-strewn ground. Looking around, she tried to catch a breath, her chest heaving with the effort, and she sighed when she realized he was not pursuing her. When she struggled to her feet, her head still spinning, she was immediately knocked back to the ground by a blow from behind.

She felt his face against the back of her neck as he leaned in close to her ear, with the stink of his rancid breath causing her nose to wrinkle in disgust.

“Where is your warrior now, Red Woman? I see no man here, except me.”

He bound her wrists behind her back with a thick rope and hauled her to her feet.

She sat on her knees in the dirt, a pair of viselike hands gripping her shoulders to keep her as much upright as was possible with her head hanging limp. The return to awareness was abrupt, as if a light switch had been flicked on and suddenly she could see again, but a thick sour smoke filled her lungs and she twisted her head away from the scent. The hands held her tighter, and then she spotted a burning ember smoldering in the hand of another held directly under her nose. She scrunched her nose and sneezed, and struggled to sit back away from the ember and smoke.

“Enough! Stop it!” she snapped. At the sound of her voice, the brown hand with the burning bundle of twigs pulled back away from her face and she coughed out the last remnants of smoke from her lungs.

“Welcome, Blooded One.”

Maggie looked up. The voice was stilted but clear, authority ringing through his words as sure as the smoke smothering her breath. It was Nemattanew who stood at her side keeping her upright, but the man who spoke sat on a high dais in front of her. He wore a decorated breechcloth riddled with brilliant colored beads, his arms littered with thick copper bracelets and smeared with bright red paint. His face was creased with age, tanned to a dark hue, a stark pallet of amused disgust gracing his expression as he considered the white woman kneeling in a disoriented heap before him.

“Welcome? This is hardly a welcome!” she replied, prompting a wave of gasps from onlookers. She suspected she was in a long house and with the cluster of people gathered, she could see this was some sort of ceremonial assembly. She desperately hoped that not all the pomp and circumstance was in honor of her appearance.

The man considered her words, his black eyes narrowing into slits. The two beautiful women at his side moved closer to him when she spoke as if to shield him from the advance of the evil Blooded One. Maggie could not help a stifled laugh that emerged as the gloriously half-naked woman clung to the man, equally decorated in finery.

“I am Weroance Opechancanough,” he said. His voice betrayed no anger at her words, only a curious tolerance, but his face still was hardened in a formidable mask. The strength of her resolve began to crumble as a sick feeling permeated the pit of her stomach and she realized exactly who the man was and how tenuous her situation had become.

“I’m Maggie,” she answered, her voice wavering only slightly.

“Tell me, Maggie,” he said. “Do you put a spell upon my nephew, as the Pale Witch put a spell on me?”

“I don’t know any spells,” she replied evenly, figuring the stronger she sounded, the better. To sit like a quivering idiot and plead for her life would be useless, so if she were going to burn she would do it with a fight. “But I do know what happens to you and your people. Is that why you want me dead?”

His lips pursed tightly and he patted the shoulders of each woman beside him, and then gave a curt nod to the other spectators in the Long House.

“Leave us.”

Nemattanew continued to keep a grip on her shoulder, and he made one attempt to argue in his own language before the Weroance issued a final order to dismiss him. The Long House emptied completely in less than a minute, leaving her on her knees at the feet of the leader.

“I wonder why you still have a tongue, with the way you speak. Have you turned my nephew into a fool? Is sharing your furs such pleasure he would forget he is a man?”

“Winn is no fool.”

He slid off the platform, with much more finesse and grace than Maggie expected from an older warrior, then squatted down in front of her to eye level. When he reached out to touch one of her thick red braids, she swatted at his hand with her bound fists, which only caused him to smile. It was not a pleasant smile by any means, more forced and maligned, but it kept his hand away and for that, she was grateful.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. She overplayed her hand against his composure and lost, a startled yelp escaping her lips when he snatched her chin in his fingers, his ebony eyes flaring.

“I will touch what I please,” he snarled. “You only breathe right now because of my command. Perhaps you should consider that before you speak.” He released her chin and she sat back on the ground, her eyes still set warily on him as she fought to control her rapid breathing.

“What do you plan to do with me?” she asked.

“What my nephew failed to do.”

“Your nephew is a…a decent man.”

One eyebrow rose slightly. “Decent? What meaning is that?”

“It means good. Kind.”

His black eyes narrowed into slits and his weathered face hardened.

“Winkeohkwet will not disobey me. No warrior of mine makes such a mistake. You think you are so important to my nephew, you think he would not crush your skull at my command?”

She was sure he meant every syllable, from his declaration of wonder at her protest to his pledge to murder her himself. She swallowed back the bile rising in her throat and closed her eyes.

“I know he would not hurt me,” she whispered.

He darted forward and grabbed her neck with one large and surprisingly vise-like hand, the other latched to her shoulder to make it easier to drag her close to his pedestal. There he slammed her head down onto a flat, round stump protruding from the ground, the skin of her neck and shoulders scraping against the roots that anchored the stump to the ground. Her vision split into blackness with shredded stars whirling above, but before she could succumb to losing consciousness, his hand loosened on her throat enough for her to gasp air back into her lungs.

“I have killed many Time Walkers. You are one of many, Blooded One, and you will not be the last.”

She saw dark dried blood on the stump, her cheek pressed into the slimy wood that she realized was slick with gore from another recent sacrifice. She gasped another breath of air through her narrowed windpipe, unable to move since his fingers still held her down by the neck. What could she say to save herself? She was no Pale Witch, nor a witch of any kind, and her magic came from her knowledge of her own time, not some spell. Her stomach whirled and dropped when she saw him raise a mallet in his other hand.

“I know when you will die,” she croaked. The effect was not instantaneous, but it worked. He slowly lowered the weapon and removed his hand from her neck, and she gauged her actions against his by very carefully raising her head. She kneeled in front of him, hoping her attempt at mimicking other Indian women would show him her deference. Trying to control her rapid breathing as her lungs screamed for more air, she remained hunched over at his command, her cheek caked with wet gore from a previous sacrifice on the stump.

“Then your magic is more powerful than even the Pale Witch,” he said, careful and controlled in his response, spoken more to himself than to her. “Tell me, Blooded One, when will I die?”

She made the decision, not certain if it would keep her alive, but afraid it was her only hope.

“I see you trick the English by sharing their food. I see your warriors take many lives in one bloody day, in all the English villages. It will be called the Massacre of 1622. You think it will drive them back across the ocean, but it will not,” she said. Her voice gained conviction as she thought up more nonsense to cast doubt in his mind. “A Weroance who knows when his time ends cannot lead his people,” she said. “And the man who kills the Blooded One will curse his people for eternity.” She dared to look up and saw his eyes opened wide and his mouth slightly agape. “I have seen it…and it will be!”

She clenched her hands tightly but could not feel the pain as her nails dug into her palms, too focused on the way the deep bronze of his skin faded to a gray tinged pallor on his face. The hand holding the mallet twitched and rose slightly, indecisive, before it dropped back down at his side.

“Nemattanew!”

The warrior responded to the Weroance’s command with only a few seconds delay, and Maggie realized he had been standing nearby the entire time.

“Take her to the English, since they claim her as kin. She will share their fate.”

Opechancanough lowered his head close to her crusted cheek, and though her heart pounded loudly in her ears, his words were clear.

“You may keep your life today, as I spared the Pale Witch once before. When you see her, tell her what was done here today,” he whispered. “You will die, but not by my hand. I will not let you curse my people.”

He straightened up and nodded. Nemattanew grabbed her by her bound wrists and dragged her out of the Long House.

CHAPTER 24

She sat numb on the wagon bench, her head feeling as if an axe had split it, although it remained intact and throbbing. Nemattanew rode silently beside the wagon. The man called Thomas Martin who claimed to be her uncle drove from a bench in front of her, ambling along as if they found a stray Englishwoman every day. She closed her eyes for a moment with a semblance of relief. She was still alive, and that was enough of a victory for the moment.

Whether Thomas had truly mistaken her for his kin or had some other devious plan in mind, she did not know, but she was certain she wanted no part in it either way. She subdued the urge to tell him exactly why she was not his niece, but the warnings from Winn still resonated through her. No one could know where she came from. No one would believe her, and the truth would likely get her strung up for witchery. Her only option was to play along with the English until she had an opportunity to escape.

Thomas Martin finally breached the silence by clearing his throat with a cough.

“I am glad to see ye hale my niece. It seems the savages treated ye with kindness. I am saddened to hear of yer ordeal since the accident and wish ye a speedy return to good health.”

“W-what accident?” was the only sensible thing she could muster.

“Why, yer fall from the ship. Ye were thought dead in the river. Ye know not what I speak of?”

“Uhm, no. No, I don’t remember falling off a boat,” she murmured. He cracked the reins against the hide of the horse to urge it faster through the dense wooded trail.

“No memory? Have ye lost yer sense, girl?” he asked.

“No! I just don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied.

“So there it is. The escorts from the Company said ye took a fall no man could survive. Perhaps it jumbled yer memory a bit,” he shook his head in disgust. “I hope ye recover yer wits soon, or I will lose the price I paid for ye passage,” he grumbled.

“What are you talking about?”

“Yer speech is queer, niece, did my brother speak so? Mayhap he spoke that blasted Scots like his wife and twisted yer English tongue for it.” He shook his head at her expectant appraisal. “No matter. I think young Benjamin has already taken a fancy to ye, so do not worry. He is a good man. Perhaps he will contract for you.”

“Contract me?” she choked. One of his eyebrows rose up and he peered back at her.

“Ye signed the contract before you left England, girl. You will wed one of the men in the colony, which is why I paid yer passage. Jack-of-a-Feather is a good friend to us, be glad he returned ye. Your rescue came at a good time, lest I would be lost of my money with no bride to barter with.”

“There has been some mistake, I am not your niece!”

He looked sideways at her. “Yes. Yes ye are. Hold yer tongue, girl, if ye know what is good for ye.” He spit out a dark wad of tobacco and clucked to the horses. “Ye have the look of yer mother, ye know, blasted bloody wench she was.”

Maggie had learned something of the time she was stuck in and knew when it was prudent to keep silent. As much as she wanted to jump from the wagon and start running, she had seen enough of the untamed wilderness and knew better than to risk her neck in it with little more than the doeskin on her back. As if he read her thoughts, Thomas looked down at her, a frown on his lips and his heavy brows slanted.

“We will get ye into suitable clothes as soon as we return. Yer heathen dress will surely give yer aunt a fright, but she will make do.”

Maggie agreed. She would give anyone a fright with little trouble.

Nighttime had fallen by the time they reached the town. The wagon came to a stop and Thomas jumped quickly down, but Maggie remained frozen, unable to remove her fingers from where they were clenched around the plank supports.

“Miss?”

Benjamin stood beside the wagon, holding his hand out to her expectantly. She turned slowly and looked down into his clear blue eyes, noting with a flush that the shade reminded her of Winn’s odd blue eyes. The man smiled at the color rising in her cheeks, and she imagined he assumed it meant something else. She swallowed back the lump in her throat and took his offered hand, and as she stepped down, she glanced past him.

Still seated on his pony, Nemattanew watched them. His face was a flat mask that betrayed no indication of unease, but Maggie thought she spotted a flicker in his gaze when their eyes met.

She choked back a sob. She had thrived on the strength of her anger, and it fed her resolve to carry on like a dysfunctional crutch. Now, separated from Winn, she felt that urge drain away like a wound gone bloodless, and the sickly taste of fear pricked her soul as she wondered if he would ever find her. She knew her American history, and she knew Jamestown was not a safe haven. Nemattanew was leaving her there to rot with the other whites, getting rid of the Blooded One one way or another.

“Thank you,” she mumbled. She turned her attention to Benjamin. Taller than the others, with thick wavy dark hair curling around his collar, he took her dusty hand and tucked it in the crook of his elbow. A stray curl fell over his brow as he dipped his head to speak. She stared hard at him for a long moment in the moonlight, his image reminding her of the hulking protector she left behind in the future. Similar in stature to Marcus, there was something about Benjamin that radiated protection and strength. She wondered if she could trust that instinct in regards to Benjamin, or if her desperate imagination was only reaching for the safe haven she once knew back home.

“Are you steady, Miss? I will carry ye should ye have need. ‘Tis understandable if you are weary,” he said quietly, heard only to her ears. She shook her head and let him lead her to the house.

Larger than she expected and constructed of stone and wood, she followed Benjamin through the plank doorway inside the house. Thomas Martin had already roused a woman she imagined was his wife, and she was comforted by the kindness in her eyes. Short and pleasingly round with a swath of ebony hair twisted at her nape, she listened to a whispered explanation from Thomas and placed both hands to her lips as her eyes widened. The woman then nodded vigorously and pressed her hands against her heart as she turned to Maggie.

“Welcome home, dear. How do ye fair, yer uncle said ye took a blow to the head? We haven’t seen ye since ye were a child, but I am yer Aunt Alice. What a blessing to see ye live and well,” she said. She motioned with a hand for Maggie to follow. “Come with me, we shall leave the men to their business.”

Benjamin nodded at her as if in blessing, and Maggie let her hand slip from his arm to follow Alice into another room off the main area.

“I fear my dress may be a bit short for you, dear, but it will do until we can fit ye for another. Anything will serve better than that which ye wear—thank our Lord no other women were about to see ye arrive. ‘Tis good they know nothing of where ye have been,” Alice muttered, pulling a white cotton shift from a wooden chest next to the lone window in the room. Two functional shutters stood open to admit the brisk night breeze through the small high window, the opening naked and free of glass. Alice noticed her staring at the space.

“My husband says he will have glass windows for us before the winter falls. He is so busy now with managing those who work the tobacco fields, he canna tend to it yet. But soon he will remedy that,” she assured Maggie. Maggie said nothing as the woman thrust the shift and a wool dress at her, as if Maggie knew what to do with it. “I will tend to the men and return for ye, dear.”

Maggie stared blankly at her back as she left the room, pulling the door closed firmly behind her. She sat down on the edge of a narrow cot, one of the few furnishings in the room. Dropping the clothes in a heap on the floor, she put her head in her hands. The tears came fast, staining her dusty cheeks with hot denial. She had no idea how to get herself out of the unbelievable mess she was in. Maggie lay down on the stiff cot and curled her knees to her chest, hugging herself as she cried. She startled at the hand on her hair, relieved to see it was only Alice patting her head when she opened her tear-swollen eyes.

“There, there, dearest. Ye just sleep now. I told yer Uncle ye need sleep before he speaks with ye. The rest will wait for morning.”

The older woman pulled a soft woolen blanket over her shoulders and tucked it under her chin, patting her back softly in comfort. Maggie closed her eyes to the gesture and let the exhaustion of sleep carry off her weary mind.

She heard the lock click securely into place when the woman left.

CHAPTER 25

Winn ignored the stares and whispers as he rode into the Powhatan village. On his last visit, he was received as the favorite nephew of the Weroance. As War Chief of the small Paspahegh tribe he was given some respect, but many remembered that half his blood ran white and treated him accordingly. For some, it would never be enough that his mother was sister to Opechancanough, or even that Winn had proved himself as a warrior among his people. Within any community there were those with long memories tainted by fear, and the Powhatan people were no exception. To many, he would never be anything more than the son of a white man.

He stopped directly outside the Great Yehakin and dismounted, thanking the wiry boy who ran up to take his tired pony. Winn had ridden hard and the beast panted with the need for water. Although his own throat was stretched dry, he would not see to his own needs until his journey’s purpose was fulfilled. It was the only thing within his power to do at a time when he felt control of his life slipping away.

He knew the warriors guarding the Great Yehakin. The older of the two, a man called Assapanick, was one of the most decorated warriors in the village. Winn dipped his head in respect to the man, earning a tap on his shoulder in return. As one of the few who were permitted to enter the Great Yehakin unannounced, Winn was allowed passage.

Once Winn lived among them as an unsure youth, and he recalled the kindness Assapanick had always bestowed upon him. Like Winn, Assapanick had white blood in his veins. It was Assapanick’s father that was half-Spaniard and his mother a Pamukey, but others still remembered. There was a time that it garnered him some sort of kinship with Assapanick, yet Winn was acutely aware that his role as one of the Powhatan was coming to an end.

If Opechancanough called for Maggie’s death, there was only one choice Winn could make. The acknowledgment of his decision felt like a stake driven through his belly, hard and unyielding as it tore his flesh. The pain of leaving everything he had ever known was harsh, but it was nothing compared to the thought of losing Maggie. He recalled the words spoken the first time they shared furs. In her shyness at their intimacy she had blushed asking him questions, but he quickly deduced the reason for her distress. When she asked if she was special to him, his heart clenched into a fist. He needed to make her truly understand what she meant to him.

“Special? If you need a word, then take this,” he whispered. “You are mine, and I am yours. I know no other word for that.”

He meant every word he spoke, as he meant it when he kneeled before his uncle. The Great Yehakin was filled with people, including several of the Weroance’s wives. It was all he could do to hold onto his temper when Opechancanough tapped his mallet on a stump and bid him to rise.

“I see you kneel before me, nephew, but I wonder what path you will choose,” Opechancanough announced as Winn stood up. Winn straightened his back and faced his uncle.

“So Nemattanew had your ear before I arrived. Then you know what I ask of you,” Winn replied.

The Weroance grunted with a tight grin stretched across his weathered face. Winn noted that his uncle seemed more tired than usual, his eyelids heavy among his creased skin.

“Eat first, and then we will speak on your matter. It has been a long time since you sat beside me, nephew.”

Opechancanough waved his hand and three women immediately responded. They presented him with a bountiful supply of food, placing the best of the nightly meal before him. Winn joined in despite his frustration, knowing he could not refuse his uncle without insulting him. For some reason his uncle was delaying their conversation, and there was little for Winn to do but play along.

The Weroance was in no hurry to finish his meal. Winn refused the offer of English rum, which earned a raised eyebrow from his uncle but no other comment. As the night wore on, Winn felt his ire rise. Opechancanough seemed in no hurry to speak with Winn, despite the fact he had long since finished his meal and he was completely enamored by one of his wives who sat in his lap.

Just as Winn decided to pursue his request, the Weroance turned his attention to him.

“I think you should rest, nephew. We can speak on your matter in the morning, so I have time to think on it,” Opechancanough called out. He clapped his hands together, bringing forward several women who were eager to please. Before Winn could object they led him from the Great Yehakin and escorted him to a smaller yehakin nearby. It was a place he knew was reserved for guests of the Weroance, and with a twinge of unease he let them lead him inside. Was he only a guest to his uncle now? On other visits Winn had slept in the company of the Weroance’s family members—sisters, wives, or children. To be relegated to the position of guest unsettled him.

He faced the empty yehakin, noting a fire burned brightly and warmed the space well. As he absently shed his tunic, two small hands embraced him and slithered up his chest from behind. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to keep his voice calm. It would do him no good to insult the woman, as insulting his uncle’s “gift” would be the same as a challenge.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, swinging around to face her. He peeled her hands away. “But I am tired now, and I must rest alone.”

She had the look of youth about her, but her eyes spoke of experience when she laughed and continued to pursue him.

“Surely you are not so tired for me?” she asked, placing her hands on his shoulders. He backed away, stumbled over the bedding, and was incensed when she wrapped her arms around his waist.

She laughed as he gritted his teeth and pushed away her groping hands.

“Enough!” he growled. When she tried to kiss him he let out a growl and shoved her – hard.

The motion sent her sprawling onto her backside, and suddenly the woman was speaking rapidly and crying. With the sounds of her crying and the roar of his pulse throbbing in his ears, he did not understand much of what she said.

“Get out,” he said hoarsely. “I have no need for you.”

His breathing was shallow as he watched her gather her belongings, which she had left conveniently beside the sleeping furs. She paused at the door.

“If you tell him I did not please you, I will be shamed,” she said. He closed his eyes for a moment, running his hands over his head. He suspected the woman was a gift from his uncle, and her words were only confirmation of the Weroance’s game.

“What did he ask of you?” Winn asked.

Her eyes dipped down and she hesitated to answer. Winn was surprised to see her skin flush, as if speaking to him was much more difficult than bedding him.

“He said I must make you forget the Blooded One. If I fail…” her words trailed off, the unspoken threat left hanging.

It was bad enough his uncle sent a half-naked women to his bed. Worse than that, her fate was now on his shoulders. He knew he could not send her away. He sighed.

“Sleep here tonight on my furs. I will tell him you pleased me well,” he muttered.

Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Winn watched her place her bundle on the floor near his furs, and then he left the yehakin on his own mission. He was through with the games his uncle played, and after the scene with the woman, he was exceedingly ready to return to his wife. Damn the tribal rules and damn his uncle, he would wait no longer.

He pushed past the warrior guards at the door, knowing that by his actions his time as Opechancanough’s favorite was at an end.

“So this is the path you choose, nephew?” Opechancanough asked, gently disentangling himself from his wife as Winn stalked toward him.

“I have no time to wait, uncle. I must return to my woman. I only ask that you grant her your protection,” Winn said, dropping down on one knee in deference.

“It is said she is a Blooded One—a Time Walker. Is it not a Time Walker that will end my life? Did I not see it in a vision with my own eyes? Why, then, nephew, would I give her my protection?” Opechancanough asked. He rose from the furs and picked up his ceremonial mallet, which he held as he made way to a bloodied stump centered in front of his royal platform. Once there, he tapped the mallet on the stump, his eyes fixed on Winn.

“Because I have asked nothing of you, in all the years I have served you,” Winn said quietly. “I know that you are a great leader, uncle, and my request is easy for you to give.”

“I once decreed I will have the head of all Time Walkers.”

“Yet the Pale Witch lives,” Winn shot back, eliciting an annoyed grunt from the Weroance.

“She is not the one who brings me to death.”

“Nor is my wife.”

Opechancanough’s eyes widened and after a pause, his lips curled downward in a scowl.

“Your wife?” he asked.

“Yes. My wife,” Winn replied evenly.

Opechancanough shifted his gaze, his attention turned to the stump once more. Suddenly he raised the mallet, sending it down to smash upon the bloody wood.

“It was here that I placed her head, and with this hand I moved to end her life,” The Weroance said softly. His voice was whimsical, as if he meant to tell a story. The darkness reached for Winn, grasping his gut, twisting it so that he could not ignore the rising terror.

He was speaking of Maggie. His uncle had placed her head on that bloodied stump. He would not—could not—believe that the gore on the stump belonged to his wife.

“Where is she?” he demanded. Had he not left her safe in his yehakin? He needed answers.

The guards moved inside the Great Yehakin at the sound of Winn’s raised voice, taking position on each side of the leader. His uncle smiled. His mouth had very few teeth, his grin appearing more menacing than well humored.

“So you have made your choice,” the Weroance said quietly, nodding his head. “I sent her to the Englishman who claims her. She rides there with Nemattanew. Go to her, if you must.”

Winn swallowed hard. He tilted his head in acknowledgement and left without further words spoken. The warriors who guarded his uncle shook their heads sadly at him as he left.

Winn knew there was no return from the journey he embarked on. His future was unwritten, tangled within the destiny of one red-haired woman.

CHAPTER 26

Maggie kicked at the ankle length skirt restricting her pace as she tried to keep in step with Alice, but her gait was clumsy enough to cause the other woman to pause in wait. Alice pursed her lips but said nothing while she waited for Maggie to regain her bearings.

“I hate this dress!” Maggie muttered. If she had even a notion of where she was at in relation to the Paspahegh village, she would have made a run for it as soon as they stepped out of the house, but being that Thomas already had an idea she might be a flight risk her opportunities to flee were kept to a minimum. Not that she would have made it very far. She suspected that in the clothes she currently wore, she was more likely to fall on her face than escape.

She could feel the sweat dripping down her back and her scent was no better, reminding her of the way sweatpants smelled after a good workout. The stench did not seem to bother Alice as much, and she knew the other woman thought her daft for insisting on a bath that morning. Maggie had a two-fold reason for her cleanly ways, the most of which was the desire to keep her freshly healed shoulder wound from festering in the moist warmth. The other was her fear of becoming too much like the women around her.

“Hush, girl! What else would ye wear?” Alice chastised her.

“I have a few ideas,” Maggie mumbled. They resumed walking toward the church. Nervous about her ability to sit through a long Christian church service, Maggie was eager to have it over with. She tried to plead sickness, but Alice would not be swayed, insistent she must do her duty and attend her first church service at Martin’s Hundred after her “terrible ordeal with the savages.” The constant proximity of either Alice or Thomas kept her imprisoned, and she was acutely aware she had not any private moments other than using a chamber pot. They used an outside closet, but they insisted she not “tax” herself. Maggie was convinced it was just another method to keep her from fleeing.

“Young Benjamin is coming toward us, Margaret. Be kind!” Alice warned.

Maggie had also noticed the tall man striding toward them through the crowd. Instead of going toward the church as the groups dispersed through the town center were, he cut through others with a well-placed smile and nod of apology as he made way to them. His earnest grin was too infectious to miss, and she found she could not be too unkind to him. After all, he was Winn’s friend. Perhaps he would help her.

“Good morning ladies! I pray ye will allow me to escort ye to church?”

Maggie was not too affected by him to decline, but Alice squashed her refusal before it left her lips.

“Why, of course, dear Benjamin! My niece takes kindly on your offer, but I will walk with my husband. I see he joins us,” Alice answered. Thomas Martin approached as well, and although the crowd parted for him, he did not garner the same glance of appreciation that Benjamin did.

“Thank you, Mistress . I will take good care of Miss Margaret at your leave,” Benjamin promised. He waited a long moment with his elbow outstretched before Maggie would take it, and she was certain he would give up if she simply ignored him, but she was surprised to see he continued waiting through the awkward moment until she finally slipped her hand onto his arm. Her brows creased at the warmth of his grin and the way he placed his other hand over her fingers, as if to keep them from slipping away.

“So, how do ye fare since yer return?” he asked when Alice and Thomas were out of earshot.

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” She bristled at his words, certain it was another display of distaste for her spending time with the Indians. She had heard enough of it from the whispers between Thomas and Alice.

His skin flushed at her words, and his half-smile seemed strained at her response.

“I just thought yer ordeal may have been quite distressing, with the accident. That is all I meant.”

“I was not on that boat, and I’m not his niece,” she hissed. “You need to help me get away from these idiots!”

“Ah, uh … quiet down,” he whispered, his eyes briefly darting around at passersby. “It’s not so simple! Thomas Martin swears you are his niece!”

“I’m not!”

“Then who exactly are ye?” he asked. His fingers tightened over hers as she moved to pull away, so she could not disengage herself without making a considerable scene.

“I’m just – I’m just not his niece, that’s all,” she mumbled. There was nothing she could say to prove her identity. No driver’s license, no credit card, nothing of value to illustrate exactly whom she belonged to. As far the colonists were concerned, the word of a man was law, and she was most painfully aware that her word held as little meaning as that of the Indians.

“Ye needn’t be afraid of Winn anymore, miss. Ye can tell me the truth of where ye come from. Ye need not return to the Indians.”

She squinted up at him. She heard a tremor in his voice, only slight, but enough to cause an undercurrent of unease to wash over her, pinpricks of goose bumps rising up on her arms in response.

“I thought you were his friend,” she said softly. His head dipped down toward her ear, and he slowed their pace by pulling back on her arm.

“He is my friend! ‘Tis the only reason I did not put a bullet through his foolish whoreson head for this!” He raked a hand through his tousled hair, disrupting the binding enough so that scattered curls sprung free. She moved to step back, but he held her arm firm. “I thought more of him than this – that he would steal a good English woman and – and act on his base instincts! He asks too much for me to stand by with no action!”

“He has done nothing wrong!”

“Nothing wrong? Has he blinded yer eyes so much, then?”

“No. It is nothing like that!” she snapped. “And if you are truly his friend, then you will help me go back to him.”

“If you want my help, ye will tell me the truth of it. Tell me who are yer kin, and I will return you to them!”

She snatched her arm away with a seething grunt.

“I have no kin.”

“Then ye’ll have to bear my questions until you recall them.”

Alice and Thomas approached. Thomas cocked his head and his brows narrowed as he neared, his cheeks squashed like two purple plums over a pointed scowl. Benjamin notably changed his demeanor, switching gears seamlessly to more gentle conversation. Although his skin remained flushed from ears to throat, his voice was tempered with calmness when he spoke again.

“Winn spoke of a wound ye suffered. I trust it heals well?”

“Yes, it’s fine,” she sniped.

He squinted a bit at her retort and resumed a pleasant smile. “Yer manner of speech is…different. I admit it intrigues me.”

“I’m sure you’ve never heard my accent before,” she shot back.

His skin flushed a bit more and his head ducked down as he smiled. He cleared his throat and patted her hand as if in distraction.

“Ah, yes, then. I would like to ask ye a favor, Miss.”

“Maggie. I think you know my name by now.”

“Maggie, then. Would you like to ride with me after the service? I would take ye to visit some friends, I’m sure yer uncle would approve.”

“That is a fine idea, Benjamin. She will join ye,” Thomas interrupted as he joined them. The older man smirked, nodding eagerly at them. “Ye plan to see Morgan White, I suppose?”

Benjamin tilted his head in agreement.

“I hope he has returned. His young son has been worried after him.”

“Do ye know which savage he was consorting with? I can’t say I trust them as much as ye do,” Thomas said.

“Pray he’s returned and we need not worry over it,” Benjamin replied. Her lips pursed shut when he pressed his hand over hers. She did not care for the way he continued to hold her as she attempted to pry her hand free, but decided her best bet was to play along. She let out a sigh and stopped her struggle and his mouth curled up into a grin.

“It will be a short ride, my dear. Unless ye prefer to return home with yer aunt—”

“No!” she said quickly, causing him to grin mischievously. He knew damn well she didn’t want to go back to the Martin house and she did not appreciate the manipulation.

“Well, it’s settled then,” he murmured. She nodded.

“I will meet ye there,” Thomas said. “I’ve business of my own with Morgan White. No better time to settle it.”

“Does that please ye, Maggie?” Benjamin asked.

She considered denying his request, but when she saw the hope in his eyes and the way he feared her rejection, she nodded in agreement. She would take him up on the offer, play on his lapse of judgment, and find a way back to Winn. It would be an easy way to get away from her fake family, and might provide her opportunity to make her escape.

“Good! We will leave right away, as soon as the minister releases us.”

The service was blissfully short, in part because the regular minister was absent and the job was taken on by volunteers. Maggie sat daydreaming beside Benjamin, relieved when the final hymn ended and they were able to leave the stuffy stone church. Alice and Thomas seemed content to leave her in Benjamin’s care, which she suspected was just another part of her captivity. She imagined they viewed him as a helpful accomplice to keep her in line, and although she still tried to decipher their rules of right and wrong, she failed miserably.

It was no matter. She would ride out with Benjamin and make her escape, and the nightmare of being detained by the English would soon be nothing more than an unpleasant memory.

CHAPTER 27

Maggie sat stiffly beside Benjamin, who had been courteous but quiet the entire way as they rode in the wagon. He took her as scheduled to a neighboring plantation to meet his friend, Morgan White, trying to introduce her to other members of the community. Apparently, the widower White had contracted for a wife from England and they would marry later in the week. It would be one of many weddings in Martin’s Hundred, thanks to the influx of eligible women sent over by the Virginia Company. Benjamin mentioned that many women had arrived on the same ship Maggie had supposedly traveled on.

Mr. White, however, had been gone for longer than expected on a trading run with an Indian companion, so Benjamin was eager to see if the man had returned safely home in time for his wedding.

He tilted his head and cracked the reins again to speed the horses, and pointed ahead to show her the plantation they approached.

“Your uncle is here,” he commented. She expected as much from the earlier conversation, but Maggie was surprised to see the elder Martin had arrived before them. The yard was empty except for a lone horse tied to split rail fence, which looked to be the black mare Thomas rode that morning. Maggie wondered if she could get her hands on the horse.

There was a pleasant small cabin at the heart of the settlement, and it seemed peculiar that there was no smoke coming from the chimney, especially considering the breeze in the air. A shiver of unease stole over her when she saw the empty barn door snapping back and forth in the wind, making a hollow thud each time it hit the barn wall. As they pulled up in the wagon, Uncle Thomas stalked out of the house, followed by a young boy of about four holding a round black felt hat and two young men, dressed in the gray homespun that most servants wore in the colony.

“What happened here?” Benjamin asked, climbing down from the wagon. He offered his hand, and she gladly took it, curious to get a look around. The place looked near abandoned.

“Young Morgan says his father left days ago with that savage Jack-of-a-Feather, and he has yet to return. Then this morning the Indian comes here wearing his pa’s hat,” Thomas said, clearly riled up.

“He never returned?” Benjamin asked.

“No,” Thomas answered, spitting out a slick of tobacco onto the ground. “Jack says he didna kill him, says he had an accident, but the evidence is damning. He’s wearing Old Morgan’s hat!”

Maggie looked toward the barn and decided to take a better look while they talked. Young Morgan watched her walk toward the barn but he hung back with the men, clutching the hat in his tiny white fingers. His dusty face was littered with pale streaks where tears had washed off the grime. The tow-headed child was dry eyed now and silent in the presence of the adults.

As she made her way closer across the packed clay, she could see two ponies tied to a post in the far side corral, one of which she immediately recognized. “Benjamin?” she called. “Who else is here?”

“Maggie, stay with me!” Benjamin reached her side and grabbed her upper arm to stop her from the path. It was unlike him to snatch her so, but she took his advice and remained next to him as they stood outside the barn since the hair on the back of her neck was standing at attention.

“The boys have the savages tied up in the barn. They said Jack-of-a-Feather rode in alone, and then the other one showed up,” Thomas said. He hoisted his rifle up to his shoulder and pointed it toward the barn in practice, then lowered it back to his side. “He must have killed Old Morgan. Jack won’t go willingly to the magistrate in Jamestown, and I do not know what to do with the other. Maybe ye can decide, Benjamin, since ye know the savage well. He’s from the village.”

Maggie saw Thomas shoot her a glare, his lips twitching nervously as he looked toward the barn. She cared very little if they planned to execute Nemattanew after what he had done, but she wondered who the second brave that accompanied him on his misdeeds was. Bile burned hot in the back of her throat. She recognized the horse tied up, and she knew very well it was one from the Paspahegh village.

“If Jack said it was an accident, we must treat him fairly, Thomas. We canna tie them up like animals,” Benjamin snapped, taking off for the barn. Thomas uttered a protest but followed him, and Maggie trailed behind.

Benjamin was on his knee, untying the captive’s ankles when she made it to the door. Winn sat cross-legged on the ground, his head hanging limp, his wrists bound behind him to a post. Blood trickled from a swollen wound above his right ear where his hair was shaved flat to his skull in the half moon shape. Nemattanew sat beside him in a similar position, more alert, his eyes filled with fury as they approached.

“Oh, God, Winn!” she cried.

CHAPTER 28

Her voice sounded like the melody of warm summer sunshine as she turned backwards on her horse to laugh at him. He loved to see her smile, and when she issued her teasing challenge to race, he gladly followed. She slapped her horse on the rump and took off, and he dug his heels in to urge his horse into pursuit. A splatter of wet sand kicked up around them, splattering the bellies of their mounts, but still she laughed, calling to him to follow. Her long scarlet locks streamed wild behind her, and he could hardly wait to catch her so he could hold her in his arms.

“Winn!” she called out.

He let her win the race, as he would give anything to see her smile, and slowed his mount as she stopped the race. Her pony swung around in a tight circle, and suddenly her eyes widened and her heart-shaped face crumpled, as if a shadow of fear had swallowed her.

“What is it, ntehem?” he called.

“Winn!” she screamed.

He had tracked Nemattenew down hours before and followed him to a farm outside of town. The warrior was alone, and Winn was uncertain why he had circled back from town and then visited the farm. As Winn watched, Nemattanew arrived and argued with the English, and against his better judgment, Winn rode in to help him. Winn grimaced, knowing now the decision was a poor one, but at the time, needed to know what was going on if he had any hope of finding Maggie.

The settlers claimed Jack of a Feather killed the Elder Morgan, and they wanted to bring the Indian to James City to face the magistrate. Winn stepped in to defend the accused, but when Winn tried to intercede, the servants immediately assumed the worst.

Things escalated very quickly after that. The servants turned on them and held them at gunpoint, and the last thing Winn could recall was waking up bound to the post. He could only surmise that Nemattanew wanted to return to the farm to explain the white man’s disappearance, probably in order to keep relations calm with the English as all Powhatan were under order to do. Opechancanough had been planning his coordinated attack on the whites for several years, and success hinged on the ability of the Powhatans to gain the trust of the whites. The Weroance would not be pleased to hear Nemattanew had slaughtered an Englishman for no good reason. Every local tribe under Powhatan rule knew of the plan, and each tribe had a part in maintaining good relations with the whites.

Nemattanew, however, was a loose cannon. The brave had a deep hate for the whites that often led him to rash acts, and the unfortunate Elder Morgan had been too trusting of the tricky Jack-of-a-Feather. Winn knew Nemattanew was losing favor with his uncle for his rash behavior, and his only regret was that it had come too late to prevent all the chaos involving Maggie. Given the choice, Winn would gladly end Nemattanew’s life, as he was sure Nemattanew would happily do the same for him.

He woke to hands shaking his shoulders and several angry voices, but even before he opened his eyes he knew one voice belonged to Maggie. His transition back to consciousness returned in a rush, and suddenly the only thing he could think of was getting Maggie as far away from Nemattanew as possible. He tried to rise but the man pushed him back down with firm pressure on his shoulders. Benjamin. Winn shrugged off his hands and staggered to his feet as the stars clouding his vision began to fade, his hands still bound behind his back.

“What is the meaning of this?” Benjamin yelled, directing his anger at the other Englishman. Winn’s right eye was swollen from the blow of a rifle butt, but he could still see Maggie as she pushed around Benjamin and pressed a cool cloth to his temple. He closed his eyes briefly to her touch, hoping the others did not notice how she wrapped her hands around his arm and pressed dangerously close to him. Winn saw a glimmer of wetness in her jade eyes and gently leaned into her to help steady her shaking.

“Thank you,” he said softly to comfort her. He kept his voice low as the Englishmen argued, more worried about getting Maggie to safety than what they might do to him.

“Winn, what happened here?” Benjamin asked, reaching out to pull Maggie away.

“Untie me,” Winn answered. His hands clenched into fists when he saw how Benjamin glanced at Thomas, then paused. Was Benjamin going to forsake him and leave him bound like a dog?

Maggie moved forward, but Benjamin snatched her hand and pushed her behind him as if Winn was a danger to her. Winn would have laughed at the irony if he were not in such a precarious position. Thomas Martin had his rifle cocked at his waist, waiting with his little pebble eyes for any move Winn might make.

“Thomas, take Maggie back to the house.”

“No!” she shouted. Maggie shook off the hand that reached for her and tried to avoid Thomas, but Winn could only watch as the older man dragged her toward the house. He heard her utter a slew of oaths at Thomas as she went, and he closed his eyes against her words and prayed she would be safe until he could get to her.

“Winn…please. Tell me what you have done,” Benjamin asked. He put his rifle down to lean against the wall, and he unsheathed the knife at his waist. Benjamin sliced through the bonds with one quick jab then stepped back a few paces. Winn flexed his hands as his wrists were released, then swiftly reached for his knife and spear that had been taken from him and lay at Benjamin’s feet. He tucked the knife in his corded belt and sheathed the spear in the carrying harness on his back, lowering his tight jaw as he gave his answer through gritted teeth.

“Think what you will, friend. I killed no Englishman … today.”

He would give no further answer to the accusations his friend posed. Fighting back his anger at Benjamin, at the English, at his uncle – in one swoop it all became clear, as if he had been living in a shadow of denial before this day.

He deserved to be a suspect, because he was guilty. No matter how much he felt friendship for Benjamin, despite the trust between them, Winn had deceived him all along with full intent to lead an attack upon the English. He had grown up believing that following the orders of his Weroance somehow made it honorable, but now, as he stared into the blue eyes of his oldest friend, he could not deny that he and the rest of the Powhatan would soon take everything from the Englishman.

Winn avoided his stare and bent to cut Nemattanew loose. He would have liked to leave him there to face the English justice but knew he could not.

“We go,” he said, directing the order to Nemattanew, who Winn feared would want to retaliate. It would only bring down the rage of Opechancanough on them all if he allowed that to happen. For once, Nemattanew offered no protest. Winn took it as a sign that he knew he was beaten for now.

“I can’t let you do that, Winn. Winn!” Benjamin yelled.

“Shoot me if you must, brother,” Winn replied. He stepped out of the barn and scanned the courtyard for Maggie. “Where is the woman?”

“She is safe. You must tell me—”

Winn ignored his plea and stalked off toward the house. He would not make the mistake of leaving her again. Nemattanew mounted up, watching him. She stood grappling with the two servant boys, looking the victor of the group in her fury, her thick fiery hair streaming out behind her and her eyes alight with heathen rage.

“Unhand my wife,” he said simply. He reached for the spear slung over his back, and both boys immediately retreated. He left the weapon sheathed and held out his hand to Maggie. Her chest heaved from her struggle, and he could hardly wait to feel her in his arms again.

“Knihelel!” Nemattanew screamed, swinging his horse wildly in circles as he cried out, lifting his fist back toward the Englishmen and screaming his promise to end them all.

Winn turned to the warrior, but before he could issue a command, Nemattanew was thrown back off his horse. The echo of the rifle came afterward, and in the melee that followed, Thomas Martin shot off another round.

“No!” Maggie screamed.

He felt the shot before he heard it, the sound trailing behind through the space of the open meadow. He hit the ground, the warm sticky sensation of his own blood running over his chest, the wound pulsing even as he tried to stop it with his hand. He sat up but fell back down, his left arm burning as if shards of glass filled the bone. He let it take him for only a moment, knowing he could not give in before he made her safe.

“Stay down! Do not move!” Benjamin ordered from somewhere above him. The voice trailed off in an echo, the sound of his heartbeat thudding louder through his ears as he winced up at the blinding sunlight. He wondered if perhaps time travel felt the same, and if Maggie had suffered when she came through to him. He would ask her that later, when they lay by his fire beneath warm furs, when he held her and whispered a song to lure her into sleep.

“Is he dead?” another voice asked.

“No…but the wound is bad,” Benjamin answered.

Winn felt his chest squeezed as Benjamin placed pressure to the wound. His eyes slid open into slits to look at his friend.

“Keep her safe, Benjamin,” he said, his voice strained from forming the words.

“Maggie – you mean Maggie?” Benjamin replied hoarsely. Winn grimaced when Benjamin pushed down harder on the wound, and he felt the warmth of his own blood as it ebbed down his ribs. He could smell its coppery scent and knew that too much of it had left his veins.

“She is…my wife. Let no man harm her…brother.”

Winn closed his eyes.

“Catch me if you can, warrior!” she laughed.

So she would make a game of it, and he would chase her. Her long auburn hair streamed behind her as she ran laughing down the beach, the wet sand sticking to her skin. Her footsteps marked her trail like breadcrumbs across the sand, and he followed it.

Should it take forever, he would find her again.

CHAPTER 29

Maggie screamed as Nemattanew flew off the horse and Winn swung back around to face them, and before she could stop him, Thomas fired off a round and Winn fell to the ground.

“No!” she screamed, throwing herself at the rifle Thomas held. She fought Benjamin when he pulled her off Thomas, kicking and biting anything she could make contact with. Her teeth sank into Benjamin’s arm and he shook her off, finally subduing her in a bear hug to avoid her sharp fingernails as she clawed him.

“Let me go!”

“Boys! Take her inside – and for God’s sake don’t let her out of your sight!” he ordered the servants who stood by. She relaxed and let them think she was willing, and then darted easily out of their grasp to follow Benjamin as he ran toward Winn. Benjamin kneeled down next to Winn, who lay fallen on the dirt.

“Enough!” Thomas shouted. He grabbed her by the back of her dress, and with one thick fist, he struck her across the face. The blow was a powerful one, sending her to the ground.

Maggie winced as Aunt Alice dabbed at her split lower lip with a bit of clean wool. They both jumped when Thomas entered the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

“Leave us, good wife,” he said, his graveled voice steady. She could see the menace in his beady black eyes no matter how calmly he spoke, and she knew he had nothing but harsh intention behind his mask. Alice immediately obeyed, reaching out to touch his arm before she left, but drawing back at the last moment and grasping for the door handle instead. She avoided eye contact with Maggie as she skittered away.

When the door clicked softly into its latch, Thomas took a step toward the bed where she sat. Her first instinct was to move away, but she was already sitting back upright to the plaster wall and had no space left to go.

“Ye will tell me now why ye helped those savages, girl. It will not save ye from what is to come, but God shows mercy on those who speak truth,” he snarled. She curled her knees to her chest and her heart began to pound against her ribs when she saw him slide the heavy leather belt from his breeches, the brass buckle catching the light from the single lamp in the room and casting a glare as he swung it in front of him.

“Don’t you dare come near me with that!” she whispered.

He breached the space and grabbed her by the hair, but then was distracted for a moment by her braid. He pulled her off the bed by using her hair like a lever, shaking her hard while his face contorted into a bright red mask.

“Ye like the savages? Should I have left ye there with them? My own niece, loyal to the savages?” he shouted. She lurched away but he was faster, his hold on her hair bringing a rush of tears to her eyes as he pulled her across the floor. Her fingernails tore and split on the plank flooring when he dragged her back, falling on her with not the belt, but his fists. He was careful in his punishment, aiming his blows to her chest and belly, anywhere her garments would cover, and finally when she lay on her side gasping for air with her arms curled around her belly, he reached for the belt.

“You’d choose them over yer own kind? It that what ye’ve done? Which one was it? Was it that bloody Winn, that blue-eyed devil?” he roared, striking her with the belt across her back. She clutched her side and tried to crawl away, but he was relentless in his rage. She felt a blow to her hip from the tip of his boot which sent her sprawling, and when he came back for another blow, she scrambled around and used the strength she had left to spit a mixture of blood and saliva in his face.

“He’s a better man than you’ll ever be!” she hissed.

“Well,” he said slowly, ceasing his pursuit to gasp a few quick breaths. “He is a dead man, is what he truly is.” He reached into the pocket of his brown breeches, and Maggie felt the blood and fight drain from her as she saw the object hanging from his hand. Two black feathers hung from a rawhide cord, and between them, she could see a Bloodstone set in copper.

“Yer lover is dead. I will have no harlot in my house, so if no man will contract ye, ye are going back to England.” He threw the pendant at her feet. “Clean up yourself, and clean up this mess.”

He wiped the back of one hand across his face and stomped out, slamming the door behind him. She sat on the floor, her chest heaving with effort of each painful breath, and although she felt the sticky wetness of blood trickle down from her mouth, she did not move.

The Bloodstone lay only a foot away, the smooth dark orb staring back at her. A crimson vein ran through its center, like a lone ray of brilliant light slicing it in half.

No. Not Winn. It could not be true. She knew with all the fiber of her being that he would never part with it. Not if there was breath left in his body.

But when she finally reached for the stone and felt the weight of it in her hand, coldness crept through her limbs as she brought it to rest against her heart. Her split lower lip began to tremble and a rush of tears rounded her swollen eyelids, the wetness streaking her cheeks and coursing down onto her hands.

CHAPTER 30

Aunt Alice allowed Maggie no time for grief. In a future life that felt long lost, Marcus had shared equally the loss of Maggie’s grandfather, and through the patience and comfort of the giant man she drew reassurance from the bond they shared. Although the sorrow had been harsh, the passing was natural and necessary, a final blow to seal the fate of a man who lived a good life and loved well. Winn’s death held no such illusion for her. She found no meaning in his loss, and among the numbness and sheer ache that littered her bones she only could see despair, licking at the wounds created by a mallet that took slow joy in crushing her soul piece by piece. She could neither run from the pain nor stop it, nor would she, if able, because at night when she curled up in her narrow bed and cried she clung to the grief, as it was all she had left of him.

Alice, however, hovered more than usual, and though she did not ever say Winn’s name, Maggie could see the sympathy in her grey eyes as the woman helped her into her dress. Alice altered a new garment by loosening a seam on the side of the bodice, and Maggie was grateful for the kindness, which made it easier for her to take a deep breath. Maggie realized by her actions that Thomas had likely beaten his wife in the past, and the woman simply knew the means to help hide the after effects.

Maggie had not left the room in two days, not from petulance but more from sheer pain, unable to make her battered body do more than use the privy pot to void or vomit. It was Alice who finally took charge, bursting into the room as if it were any other day and throwing open the shutters to the lone window. She would take no argument, Maggie was getting dressed, and that was all there was to it.

While Alice rifled through her trunk looking for a more presentable apron, Maggie felt another surge of bile rise in her throat as she sat on the edge of the bed. She reached the pot just in time, and Alice made a clucking sound as she helped hold back her red hair. Thicker and shinier since she had arrived, it was quite a bit longer, too, so she was glad for the assistance. She smiled ruefully at Alice.

“Sorry,” she murmured. Alice shrugged and took the pot in both hands to dispose of the contents.

“You need to eat, child. Nothing to fret upon.” Alice opened the door with a swing of her ample hip and glanced back at Maggie. “Leave that one apron out, ‘tis threadbare. We will cut it for rags—for when ye have need.”

Maggie nodded in acknowledgment, but when the door closed behind Alice another sickly feeling assuaged her, and this time it was not only her stomach. Rags? Well, women were still women, no matter what time one lived in. She picked up the worn out apron and stared at it for a moment, counting backward in her head.

No. It could not be.

“No!” she moaned, pressing the apron to her lips.

She counted again, and suddenly she felt like the passenger on a freight train when her heart began to hammer away behind her bruised ribs. Her hand slipped down over her belly, swollen she assumed from the more palatable food in town, then up to her sore and heavy breasts, which she had blindly ignored. She realized that she had not bled in six weeks, and promptly vomited into the apron.

“Oh, dear! Again? Come to the parlor and we will feed you, dear! I will clean this mess. You cannot go on without food!” Alice sighed over the additional disorder when she entered the room.

“And Margaret, Young Benjamin is here. He worries terribly for ye and asks to see ye,” Alice commented as she buttoned up the back of Maggie’s dress. Maggie winced when Alice pulled the apron and knotted it at her waist.

“I don’t think so,” she replied.

Alice took her hand firm in her grasp. “Yes, dear, ye are leaving this room, and a fine young man waits for ye. He told Thomas of his intention to court ye, take yer comfort in that. Here,” she said, taking a white linen kerchief from her apron pocket. Alice wiped it gently across Maggie’s eyes and mouth and then paused for a moment with her palm on her cheek. She offered Maggie a cup of water, which helped wash the sour taste away. “He is a good man, child. He is quite different from…yer uncle.”

Maggie lowered her eyes. It was probably the most the woman could ever admit to what a beast her own husband was, and Maggie appreciated the sentiment. She wondered how many times Alice had suffered the same under his twisted form of personal justice. She also wondered if the life in her belly had survived his onslaught.

Alice unlatched the bedroom door, and as Maggie peeked out from behind her, she saw Benjamin jump to his feet, his wide-brimmed hat clenched in one fist and his shoulders sprinkled with fresh snow. His high cheekbones were flushed with cherry red dimples as his eyes met hers across the room.

Maggie was relieved to see Thomas was not present, so she felt somewhat safer as she let Alice lead her into the parlor.

“Miss Martin,” Benjamin said with a curt nod of his head. His eyes remained fixed on Maggie as he spoke, pained and searching, and she dropped her gaze to break the contact. She did not wish to hurt him, but she could hardly find strength enough not to run screaming from the house, let alone continue to pretend to be a compliant Englishwoman. With her head still spinning with the news of her discovery, she tried to cling to some vestige of sanity, but knowing Winn would never come rescue her from the façade left little motivation for her to continue the ploy.

“Good morning, Young Benjamin,” Alice replied. “Margaret is feeling much better today. Will ye please sit with her while I fetch more kindling?”

“Of course.” He dipped his head to Alice as she passed, leaving them alone in the parlor, the crack and spit of the fire the only sound between them.

“Are ye well, Maggie? Ye look quite pale.”

She wanted to tell him he would look just the same, having been beaten within an inch of his life, but she bit back the retort for lack of caring or strength to argue. She shrugged.

“I’m fine. You can go away now.”

She stood up and turned her back to him, her eyes focused instead on the fire. Anything was better than looking into his tragic face, full of guilt, longing, and other unmentionables.

“I’m sorry for what happened. He was my friend as well as yours. I can see it pains ye, and I wish I could—”

“You could what, Benjamin? Bring him back? Give my child a father? Get out,” she whispered, the anguish spilling forth like the swell of a hurricane. “Get out. Just get out!”

She shrieked and slapped him in a reflexive response when he put his hands on her, a swell of rank fear bursting forth with memories of what Thomas has done to her. Benjamin did not block her blows, merely stood there, his hands on her shoulders as she sobbed, until finally he closed his arms around her. She hated every ounce of his touch, every gentle pat, every calming word he spoke, and finally when she lost will to continue she simply cried against his shoulder, clutching his hated chest with her fist.

“Ye carry his child?” he asked quietly. She did not raise her head, but nodded.

“Yes.”

His arms tightened around her and she grimaced against the pain.

“Then grieve for him tonight,” he murmured. “And tomorrow I will see ye to church.”

He placed a gentle kiss on her brow, placed his hat on his head, and left.

CHAPTER 31

Maggie walked dutifully beside Benjamin, wishing she could pull her hand away from where he had it tucked firmly in his elbow. As the stale days passed and left her aching with loneliness, she found it best to make plans on her own and decided it was time to speak with the Pale Witch. No one could help her but Finola.

She knew the time of the massacre was approaching, but her memories of history were fuzzy at best. Yes, she knew it happened in early spring, but she could not recall the exact date. For that matter, the English kept dates differently than she was accustomed to in the future so she was not quite sure how the numbers would correlate anyway. The only truth she knew for certain was if she wanted to avoid the upcoming massacre, she needed to get out of Martin’s Hundred as soon as she possibly could.

Benjamin continued to press his attentions, but she was relieved he seemed somewhat shy and reserved in his courting and remained patient to gain her favor. She felt sorry for deceiving him, letting him believe she was a happy recipient of his affection, but she had no other option save telling him the truth.

Well Benjamin, soon the Indians are going to kill pretty much everyone in Martin’s Hundred. How do I know that? Oh, I’m from the future. From 2012. Care for some tea with your dinner?

She was sure that conversation would not go over well.

They took a different path to town than she was accustomed, and as they passed down a lane through a narrow stretch of dense woods she wondered if he chose the seclusion on purpose. His intentions became clear when he stopped walking and took her hand more intimately in his own.

“Benjamin, we should hurry on,” she began, stunned when he raised her hand to his lips and gently kissed her knuckles.

“I beg yer leave, Maggie, but I must speak to ye.”

He caught her by the fingertips and held them tight so she could not flee.

“I do not wish to cause ye distress,” he began. “But I fear we must act quickly,” he pleaded. She shook her head, afraid of his meaning, uncertain how to placate him and extricate herself from the awkward mess.

“I don’t know what you mean–”

“I ask ye to marry me. Please be my wife,” he said softly. She stepped back.

“Benjamin–”

“If we do not marry soon, people will soon notice yer condition, and there will be talk.”

She shook her head and turned her eyes downward, unable to meet his soft searching gaze.

“I cannot marry you, Benjamin,” she murmured.

“Maggie,” he sighed. “Yer uncle will disown ye, and possibly send ye back to England. I can do nothing to change that…unless ye marry me now.”

“Why? Why would you ask this, when you know I carry his child?” she asked, feeling the sting of tears in her eyes as she lost patience with him.

“It matters not to me,” he said softly. Shocked by his admission, and not expecting such a declaration from a man of his time, she let him hold her closer and raised her swollen eyes to his.

“Why would I hold ye at fault for such a thing? Ye were lost and injured, ye are lucky to live. It is not your doing what happened,” he replied, his eyes damping with sadness. “Ye came here under contract on yer uncle’s bidding. And whatever happened between ye and Winn…he was my friend, even so. At least I can offer ye protection now.”

Taken aback by his sincerity and struck by the adamant undercurrent in his words, she leveled her response with the kindest tone she could muster.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“He asked it of me, before he died. He asked me to protect ye. It is the last thing I can do for him...to see ye cared for.”

She bit her lower lip. No. Winn would not have asked this of her…would he? Winn, her warrior, the man who had killed a brave for placing an ownership mark on her head? Would Winn truly have wanted this? She did not believe he would send her willingly to another man, unless…unless he knew he could no longer be there to protect her from what was to come.

“What did he say to you?” she whispered. She stepped away from him, but he did not let her leave him entirely. His eyes dipped down and he clutched her hands harder.

“With his last words, he spoke of ye. He knew the shot was fatal…he asked me to keep ye safe.”

She bowed her head into her hands and her body began to shake. Memory of his promises stung her as the tears flowed.

Now you will feel no rain, for I will shelter you.

Was this his way of keeping his promise, even in death?

“All right,” she whispered, the words like ice upon her tongue. He ran one hand through his unruly hair and his cheeks burned with a hint of crimson at her declaration. He raised the hand he held to his lips and kissed it gently.

“Yes, then. Good, it is settled. Come now, Miss Finola awaits us.”

Finola did not take the news well. She had closed her shop to visitors, yet when Maggie and Benjamin arrived that morning, she allowed them entrance. She stepped back from the door and waved them inside, clutching a wool cloak around her as the snow whipped in behind them. She looked older than when Maggie had last visited, her face drawn, her skin an unhealthy pallor. The older woman sat down on a stool next to the fire and placed her hands close to the flames, rubbing her palms to warm them. Maggie recalled her own desire to let the flames consume her and her heart ached fresh at the thought of their shared loss.

Benjamin took her cloak from her shoulders and Maggie sank down on her knees in front of Finola. Their hands met and entwined together, and they both kept their gaze on the snapping flames of the fire. Maggie could cry no tears for Winn with Benjamin at her side, but the older woman seemed to know her heart and she patted her hand in a soothing manner.

“He was the best of them, you know. The Paspahegh, that is,” Finola said quietly. She kept her eyes on the fire as she spoke, and Maggie felt each of her words like a dagger scraping slowly across her skin.

“He was,” Maggie answered, the words hollow on her dry lips.

“Will Thomas Martin be punished for his crime?”

Finola turned then to look at Benjamin, and he paled considerably.

“You know there was no crime, Miss,” he said, his voice breaking with the last bit of words. He shoved his hat back over his unruly curls.

“Yes, I know. No crime but the murder of my grandson.”

“Take care for your words, lest someone else hear them. I will see to my business and return for ye soon, Maggie. Miss Finola.” He nodded to them both in a stilted manner and quickly made his exit.

Maggie felt a surge of relief when Benjamin left the cabin, leaving her and Finola to speak openly. Finola must have sensed her urgency, because after Benjamin left she quickly closed the door and latched it securely.

“Come,” she said simply, and waved her toward a separate room in the back.

Maggie followed her into the second half of the house, a common sitting room with her sleeping space in one corner. The older woman reached under her stuffed straw mattress, and after fiddling through the linens for a few moments, she withdrew a bundle wrapped in silk.

“What do you have there, Finola?” Maggie asked.

“Sit down, dear,” she ordered as she unwrapped the bundle. When it was unbound, Maggie did as she was directed and sat down on a chair, nearly missing the seat but finding it with two outstretched hands.

From Finola’s thin white fingers hung a pendant on a thick gold chain, the center of the setting a fat, shining, Bloodstone.

“Before ye ask, child, this is my Bloodstone. I cannot give it to ye, it does not work that way. I have the same mark as ye,” she explained, holding out her palm for inspection. It was true. They shared the same brand.

“But how does it work? Why am I here?” she asked, her questions running together in an incoherent jumble of nonsense. “Tell me!”

“Aye, of course, I will tell ye! I do not know where yer stone is hidden. My grandson kept his secrets well,” she said softly. Maggie felt a surge of despair at the revelation, but she knew the outcome had bound her to the time more powerfully than any shackle could. “The raw stone needs your blood to work the magic, and once you use it, it bonds to the bearer. My mother taught me how to use it long ago.”

“Oh,” Maggie said. “Blood…I cut my hand before I picked it up.”

Finola nodded. “So it knows you now, and you cannot walk again without it.”

“There has to be another way – have you tried to use another stone?” Maggie asked.

“There are other ways, with other magic, but the ways to wield that power are long lost to us. But child, if I had your stone here to give ye now, would ye truly want to use it? I think your heart lies here, and this is the time ye now call home,” she said. “The babe in your belly belongs to this time, does it not?”

“But,” she began, but then her lips fell silent. She wrapped her arms around her body, trying to wash away the doubt the woman brought forth. Would she leave, if she could? Could she walk away from this time? She shook her head. The thought of leaving Winn’s memory in the past hurt more than the notion of what she left in the future, the door to the fable of her old life clicking shut with a gentle tap. By staying in the past, would her son know his father? Or would they both be better off in the time she was born to?

“Nay, no need to answer me, dear. It is as it should be,” she sighed.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the Bloodstones are curious things. They have been used by my people for centuries, and have been known as powerful talismans. Only the most skilled Blooded Ones can truly harness their power, and once used, the Bloodstone marks its bearer, ye see,” she said.

“Wait, wait a second! Blooded Ones? What does that mean?” Maggie interrupted.

“It is what my people are called. Blooded Ones, those who can use powerful magic. Here in James City, a witch,” she answered.

“So the Weroance was right. You are a witch.”

Finola shrugged.

“Opechancanough is an old fool, he knows nothing.”

“What lies between you? He told me he spared my life, as he once spared yours,” Maggie said. “What was he talking about?”

“A tale best left buried, is all. It is true, he let me leave. He fears too much what he canna understand. Enough of him,” she muttered, shaking her head. “He is too stubborn to see the truth.”

Maggie swallowed despite the dryness in her throat. “Were you born here, in James City?”

“Och, no! My Bloodstone sent me here many years ago, with my son, Dagr. It is a long story for another time, but it is how we arrived. My mother was a powerful Blooded One of the Five Families, and she passed her gift to me,” she said softly, her eyes staring off, seeming lost in her memory for a moment. Her clear blue eyes glistened, but she shook her head a bit and continued. “It seems you have some powerful blood in yer veins, child. Who are your kin?”

“No, I don’t come from—from anyone special. I don’t even know my parents, my grandfather raised me after my mother abandoned me. I never had anyone else.”

“But now ye know where ye belong. I saw it in a dream, Winkeohkwet with his Red Woman.”

“Did you see his death, as well?” she asked, her voiced edged in more bitterness than she intended.

“No,” she answered. “I did not.”

Maggie let out her breath in a long sigh before she entered the parlor. Benjamin was waiting to announce their plans, eager to tell her guardians they would marry in the morning.

Benjamin stepped toward her with his gloved hand outstretched, and Maggie walked toward him, although she was unable to curb a low cry when he squeezed her bruised upper arm in his excitement. His brows darted downward, tiny creases spreading out from each corner of his troubled blue eyes at the sound of her pained noise.

“Sweetheart, what troubles you?” he asked softly. She winced when his hands closed around her shoulders, and when he pulled her into his arms and his embrace tightened around her ribs she let out a moan.

“What is it?”

“It’s nothing,” she lied. She shook her head, more to herself than to him, not wishing to admit aloud what Thomas had done to her.

He frowned as he looked down on her and reached a purposeful hand to her collar, which he gently pushed aside. She made no effort to stop him, letting him see the lacework of blue and purple bruises that marked her skin. He tilted her chin with shaking fingers, his lips mashed in a single thin line as he drew away. When he spoke, his voice cracked through his gritted teeth.

“I will be right back. Keep ye here until I return.”

Maggie watched him swing abruptly around, his cloak whirling in a halo around him as he shoved his hat on his mass of thick black hair and left the house. Alice was nearly knocked over by his exit, and Maggie was surprised to note Benjamin failed to acknowledge Alice as he left.

Alice swatted fresh snow off her bonnet and dropped a bundle of kindling next to the fire.

“Did you chase him away, niece?” she asked.

“No. I did nothing,” Maggie answered with a shrug. She had no idea what was going on in Benjamin’s head. She reached back and loosened the apron at her waist, and then settled down on her knees by the fire. The flames licked her skin, casting a spreading warmth over her face as she leaned close. If she stuck her hand in, would she burn? Or would she wake up from the nightmare she was in and find her husband waiting to welcome both her – and the babe?

A baby. The last thread pulled from an unraveling yarn, a splinter from the heartwood of a forest, a pledge of his love left nestled within her. Her hand slipped down over her belly and rested there. Her condition was not yet evident, but soon, it would be.

“Well, he looks to be in a rare temper,” the older woman sniped.

It was not long before the door slammed open again and Benjamin returned. This time he failed to remove his hat, and he stalked purposefully across the room to the fire where she sat. He held out one gloved hand to her.

“The minister is waiting for us now, my dear. There is no need to wait any longer.”

Alice gasped. “Now, you say?”

“Yes.”

Maggie looked at his outstretched hand, his long fingers covered by the fine black calfskin glove. She turned her gaze to the fire. She wondered if she could just continue to stare at the flames and forever remain there, eventually melting into its core to disappear into nothingness.

Another figure filled the doorway, his wind chapped cheeks stunted and beady eyes narrowed, and when Maggie realized it was Thomas, she quickly placed her hand into the palm Benjamin held out to her. Stay with a violent devil, or take what Benjamin offered.

She had no choice.

She clutched her cloak around her shoulders as Benjamin hurried her toward the church, barely able to keep up with his rapid pace without jogging alongside him. His stride was long and propelled by his quiet anger, his displayed emotion clear yet much different than she was accustomed.

The church loomed up ahead, the lights blazing like a beacon to guide them. The faster Benjamin walked, the more she slowed, and finally she grabbed his arm with both hands and urged him to a halt.

“Benjamin. Stop, please, stop!” she insisted. He swung around to her, his cloak whirling, snow quickly covering the brim of his hat and the tops of his broad shoulders. His cheeks were reddened, from the cold or the anger she knew not, and his soft eyes looked pleading as he gazed down at her.

“Sweetheart, we can talk inside, after our vows,” he promised. She shook her head, panicking at the realization of what she was about to do. She would tell him she could not wed him, that her heart belonged to her husband even if she could not join him yet in the afterlife.

“No.” She raised her chin and looked him in the eye. “I cannot do this.”

His brows creased and his mouth fell open with a sigh before he spoke. He still held her hand, but more tightly now, as if he could mask the sting of her words from it.

“Maggie…I –”

“I cannot,” she said softly. She had no idea where she would go in the dead of winter without his protection, but she knew it would not be back to that lying, abusive, bastard Thomas. Perhaps Finola would take her in.

She was stunned when his cold hands slipped around her face and his breath warmed her skin. His eyes were tinged red about the edges as he looked at her, searching for something she knew she could never give him.

“Maggie, I love ye. I have loved ye since the first moment I saw thee in Finola’s store, yer hair in braids, a pale beauty among all the rest.” He bowed his head away from her gaze for a moment. “I wish I was the first man ye lay eyes on in this fearful new world. But I take thee whole, as ye are, with all that has happened. Without all those of things, I would not have thee,” he said softly. He kissed her then, his lips cold at first but heated with their connection, then moistened by her salty tears. “Ye did not deserve what Thomas did to ye. I promise you, I am not that kind of man. I would never lay hands to my wife in such a way. Let me protect you, and in time—in time ye will grow accustomed to me.”

She swallowed hard at the memory of the beating. Her eyes searched his, and she could see the earnest plea reflected in his gaze. What choice did she have?

“But the baby –”

“Hush. I take thee before God as my wife, and the child will be ours, just as the children that will come of our union. Now, take my hand,” he said. “The minister is waiting for us.”

Maggie sat with her hands folded on the edge of the bed. She was no idiot, and she was fairly certain her new husband would expect to share her bed on their wedding night. Men of the time were predictable in their ways, and when it came to both sex and religion they gave no leeway for compromise. Her bruises were tender but healing, and she knew prolonging the matter would only cause more strife. She reminded herself of the reasons, but in the end, the thought of sharing his bed felt akin to a stake through her spine.

Benjamin was a man of his time. Although he seemed more reasonable than the others and had already pledged he would not be the sort of husband to lay hands on her, she did not expect him to forgo his rights as her spouse.

When she murmured goodnight and left a chaste kiss on his cheek, he stepped into the room with her and closed the door. He reached to snuff the single candle in the room, then peeled off his calfskin gloves. Always dressed as the proper gentleman, he had several layers of clothes to shed before he took her hand again in the dim light. He turned her slowly back to him, the longing evident in his gaze and building rapidly as he placed his hands on her shift. His fingers shook as he untied the laces, plucking the delicate rounds free one by one. In her flat bare feet her head only came to his collarbone, and she closed her eyes when he bent down to kiss her, his hands sliding around her waist.

“Will ye have me, dearest?” he asked.

She nodded. Later, the silence seemed much easier to live through than listening to the ghost of her past. The demons, however, had other ideas, and when he lay sleeping peacefully beside her with his long arm thrown over her belly, she stared up at the ceiling and silently cried in acknowledgement of the devils.

CHAPTER 32

Maggie wiped her hands on her apron as she watched the wagon approach the farm. It was not long before she spotted the two passengers, Charles Potts and Jonathon Pace, and decided she should join Benjamin in the barn before they arrived.

Benjamin lived on a small croft on the outskirts of Martin’s Hundred called Wolstenholme Towne. It lacked the protection of the stockade walls, but it had a separate enclosure of shoulder-high log barriers that appeared to provide adequate security against wildlife and other dangers. Maggie knew Benjamin was quite friendly with the natives and considered them little threat. Yet she knew better than he as to the danger that would come, and she was torn with the urge to alert him to the potential disaster. Of course, she could only offer her womanly advice, for as much as that was worth in the despicable century, and bat her eyelids when he laughed off her ideas. Why on earth should she help any of them, anyway? They deserved to be run off after what the English were bound by history to do to the Natives, but the resolution seemed less clear when the victims in question were living, breathing, human beings who gave her food and shelter. They had no idea what the Indians would do to them in a few short weeks and Maggie could not fathom what her role should be in the tragedy.

Benjamin stood by the barn, shirtless and sweating and not the least bit unattractive when a wide smiled creased his face at her approach. She grabbed her skirts up above her ankles and made way toward him with his midday meal in a basket. Although married only a few weeks, they settled into a comfortable routine that she could tolerate without resistance. As long as she cooked for him and allowed him to share her bed, he was pleasant to live with, quite the contrast to what her life would have been like had she remained in the Martin household.

“Well, it is mighty fine to see yer pretty face, sweetheart,” he said. He let the axe handle rest against a stump and met her halfway, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm and grinning at her as if he had committed a heathen crime.

“Thank you, Benjamin,” she replied. She glanced anxiously around him, peering over his shoulder toward the barn, hoping to get a glimpse of the new foal. She missed Blaze terribly, and longed to regain some normalcy in her very un-normal life. Spending some time with a new foal would prove quite the distraction.

“They’re in the barn,” he explained. He reached out as if to take her arm but pulled back, apparently unwilling to mar her new dress with his grime. She was happy for the distraction and brushed past him into the barn. She found the mother eating peacefully with the foal curled in the straw at her feet, and sat down beside them in the large loose box.

She filly nickered when she scratched her chin, and Benjamin joined her in a smile at the new life before them. He leaned over the wall of the box, watching her as she petted the foal and cooed to the mare.

“Pretty girl,” he commented, a teasing twinkle in his blue eyes. Maggie ducked her head and shrugged.

“She’s a nice filly, for sure,” she agreed, deflecting the comment because she knew full well it was not directed at the horse. Charles Potts finally made it to the doorway, his chest heaving with effort when he entered the barn. He leaned on the doorjamb, spit out a chuck of dark tobacco, and glared at the two of them.

“Ye hardly look ready to go into town, Dixon!” he complained.

“Doona worry, Charles,” Benjamin offered. “I will not take long to be ready.” Charles scowled, but apparently thought better of complaining further.

“Well, then make haste, and we will go.”

Her hand paused in mid scratch against the filly’s ear, and Maggie held her breath in as the men spoke, wishing she could curl up into herself and disappear. If there was one thing she hated most about the century, it was being disregarded as if her presence held no meaning. She was bone tired of being told what to do every second of the day, shushed when she dared object, and generally talked down to as if she was worth little more than a sack of oats. If not for the baby she would have taken her chances in the wilderness long before, preferring the risk rather than remain stuck in such a life.

Benjamin shifted nervously as he folded his arms over his bared chest, then ran one hand through his unruly ebony hair. Maggie pretended not to pay attention, but she noticed the way he cocked his head and studied her as he spoke to Charles.

“Well, yes, of course. Would ye like to go into town with us, my dear?”

“Business has no place fer women,” Charles said gruffly, his plump cheeks flushed like ripe red berries against his grey pallor. Benjamin made a low chortling sound in his throat and waved the man off.

“Then ye know not my wife, Charles. She is quite clever.” Benjamin spoke slowly, his voice without waver as he stared the other man down.

“So then bring her, if ye must. There is some new ale up at the Ordinary, we mean to try it. I fear that may not please the lady, but –”

“Ah, no worry. Go water your horses, we will be along soon.”

Maggie ducked her head and closed her eyes briefly, feeling her fingernails cut crescents into the skin of her palms as she clenched her fists. She could smell his scent – sweet fresh alfalfa mixed with afternoon sweat, stronger when he slipped a hand under her elbow and pulled her gently to her feet.

“I hope this arrangement pleases you,” he offered. She had no idea how to answer him, or what to say to pacify him, not knowing if he spoke of the impending visit to town or of the state of their hasty marriage.

Benjamin was a confusing matter entirely. She had learned much about him in the few weeks of their marriage, and his honorable and gentle nature continued to surprise her. From what she recalled of her history lessons, life was lonely for English settlers, and with a man to woman ratio of nearly six to one, marriage was a luxury few could afford. She wondered how he had been one of the men fortunate enough to have such money to spend on a wife.

“I have no say in how things are done,” she finally answered after a long silence. She pulled at the edge of her bodice and made a chore of righting it over her skirts, then bent to brush imaginary straw off her boots.

“Maggie.”

She knelt down and began to re-tie her bootlaces. Not yet dissuaded, he knelt beside her and reached out, taking her hands away from the task and holding them between his larger ones. He wore gloves as he often did during the day, but his hands were still warm through the soft leather.

“We have not had much time to know each other, but many marriages start with less than what we have had.” He placed his thumb under her jaw and she moved to turn away, but he tucked her chin between his fingers and met her resistance. “I am not such an awful scag, am I?”

A corner of her lip turned up, his earnest appraisal of the situation and his resultant uncertainty in his own appeal causing her to smile against her better judgment. A flush streaked his neck and he grinned, looking down and then up at her and then back to the ground again like a shy adolescent. She took his proffered hand and stood up beside him, watching curiously, as he ran a hand through his thick black hair. Standing there with the setting sun streaming across his back from the open barn door, his broad shoulders filled out a pleasing countenance and unexpectedly she ached with a pang of homesickness. Perhaps it was his kind disposition, or his gentle manner, or maybe the way his hulking form filled out the doorway, but suddenly it all reminded her of Marcus and a farm of her own that was probably falling apart without her.

“No, you’re nothing of the sort,” she replied.

“No? Well, then, I suppose that is a good start.”

She saw his bright eyes soften as he laughed, but then his laugh slowed as he watched her chuckle. Her throat caught and she swallowed back another laugh, seeing the budding desire in his gaze and trying to think of a way to put him off. When he kissed her she did not object. His attentions were careful, controlled, treading carefully as he asked for more.

“I’ve held ye at night in the darkness,” he said softly, “and I’ve felt yer body beside mine. I wonder, is it different then, when I can see ye like this in the light?”

She swallowed hard when his fingers drifted down her body. His hand brushed over the side of her neck, his thumb caressing her gently. As his lips traced a path down her throat his hand settled lower at the base of her spine. He pulled her close, seemingly eager to answer his own questions.

No, she thought. Not here, not like this. She could abide his attention in their bed, when darkness settled and the candles were snuffed. Then she could imagine he was another, and somehow, it eased her despair. In the muted daylight of the barn, however, there was no protection from the truth. She froze at his touch and put her palm flat against his chest.

“Please, not here,” she whispered.

He looked up and his hands stilled. She closed her eyes in relief when he pulled away.

“Oh, Maggie,” he said, caressing her cheek. He gently kissed her lips without pressing for more. “I’m so sorry. I – I should not have – I’m sorry. Here, let me help ye.”

He brushed the straw from her hair and straightened her dress, then squeezed her hand.

Feeling more than a bit deceitful, she looked toward the house and held a hand to her ear.

“Do you hear that? I think it’s Charles calling, we’d better go inside,” she insisted. She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the house, her chest heaving as she tried to slow her breathing. Although he protested, he followed anyway, and for that, Maggie was quite grateful.

Maggie tapped the granite mortar against the side of the pestle, the dried herb remnants falling into a fine dust in the cup. Finola glanced over her shoulder as she often did while they worked, nodded approvingly, and then moved back to her place cataloging the various jars along the wall shelves.

She spent as much time as allowed with Finola, and although Benjamin did not entirely approve of her working with the healer, he did not move to stop their visits, so it was all Maggie could do to get there fast enough each day after church.

Maggie rose from her stool and went searching for the loose goldenseal she had brought, and realizing she left it in her gathering basket, she went into the back room to find it. She heard the door open as she rummaged through the basket, knowing it was most likely Benjamin come to fetch her as usual. When she still had not located the wayward bunch of plants, she let out a frustrated sigh and kicked the wall with her boot toe.

“Ah, Maggie, there ye are!”

She glanced up at Benjamin and forced a smile to her lips.

“I think it might be sprained,” she lied, rubbing the joint with a grimace.

“Ye surely invite accidents, if I may beg yer pardon for saying so,” he smiled. He offered her his arm, and she took it, letting him lead her out into the great room where Finola still hummed away as she worked on her inventory. The older woman appeared engrossed in her task, but she raised an eyebrow at Maggie when Benjamin bent to examine her ankle.

“It does not appear too damaged. Can ye walk on it, or shall I carry ye home?”

Maggie choked on her reply when Finola rolled her eyes skyward.

“No—no! I’m fine, Benjamin, I can walk just fine,” she muttered.

Benjamin placed her hand firmly in his elbow and nodded to Finola on the way out with a smile. Maggie’s teeth clanked together in the back of her mouth and she cleared her throat to muffle a groan.

It was not that he was unkind, or even that he was not pleasant to be around. In fact, as much as she would admit to herself, he was good company, and he certainly was a handsome young man. There were several women still unattached who had arrived on the same ship Maggie supposedly sailed on, maidens and young widows alike, and Maggie noticed the stares Benjamin garnered anytime he happened into town. He commanded a presence, from his broad shoulders and thick strapping arms to his twinkling blue eyes and boyish grin. Still showing remnants of an unsure youth in his chiseled face, but with the swagger of growing self-assurance, he would be irresistible to any lucky young woman. Had they met in another lifetime, Maggie had no doubt he would have turned her head, but fate being what it was, there was nothing of her heart left for anyone but her child.

Benjamin took care in leading her back to the Towne square, where the wives served a hearty mid-day meal to the men. She did not want to join them, but being they were in town for the day they could not refuse the offer Alice made.

She stumbled and Benjamin caught her, a grin on his lips at her scowl. She resisted the urge to simply lift her skirts above her heels instead of kicking through the heavy skirt, but she tried not to embarrass Benjamin in front of the other townsfolk.

A group of braves was tying their horses outside the Ordinary and she spotted Chetan among them, flanked by Makedewa. She had no objection to seeing Chetan and would like to ask how his son fared, but knowing she would see Makedewa as well put a damper on things. She had not seen either of them since the night Nemattanew abducted her, the memories of that time in the village beginning to feel like the whispers of a dream she meant to return to.

“Oh, so good to see ye back! We are nearly ready to eat, find ye a seat,” she ordered, shooing them toward the long wooden table in the courtyard. Feeling a distinct rumble of acquiescence from her belly, Maggie was happy to comply and took a seat beside Benjamin on a bench. Aunt Alice joined them at the far end of the table and led them in a short rendition of grace before they all dived in.

“Would you rather rest, my dear? I will take ye in the house if you need so,” Benjamin offered, passing her a basket of soft fresh corn bread. She took a helping and passed it to her left as she shook her head at Benjamin.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said. The last place she wanted to rest was anywhere near Thomas, and in fact, sitting at the same table sharing a meal with him as he glared at her with his beady black eyes was more than enough torture for one day.

“Thank ye, Miss,” a voice murmured. She tried not to twist around in her seat, but instead settled for shooting Jonathon Pace a look from the corner of one squinted eye.

“You’re welcome,” she said, as demurely as possible under the circumstances. The man gave her the creeps, and she had nothing nice to say to him. She scooted over a few inches closer to Benjamin.

“Jonathon!” Benjamin bellowed, thrusting his arm across her face to clasp warmly with Jonathon. She leaned back away from the two men, her eyebrows raised, and shoved a piece of corn bread in her mouth. She reached over them to grab her mug of cider and hastily downed it, looking longingly across the table at Benjamin’s tall cup of ale.

“Ah, uhm, I will pour ye some ale, dearest, but go easy,” Benjamin said, grinning as he removed his own mug from her hands and filled her cider cup with a splash of ale. She looked down at it and hastily handed it back to him. As much as she would like to, she knew it was bad for the baby no matter what century she was in.

“So Opechancanough passed through Jamestown? Must be a special occasion for him to travel so far from his home,” Benjamin commented. Maggie felt her cider and bread coming back up at the name of the Weroance. Jonathon nodded, taking a bite of bread as he reached for a platter of salmon passed his way.

He offered it politely to Maggie but she waved it off, content with her ration of boiled ham and pickled beets. Along with the fresh bread, the meal would be quite filling, and she knew with more mouths to feed it would be best to pass the meats to the men.

“Yes, he stayed only one day, but he was quite cordial to the new Governor,” Jonathon agreed.

“Was there trouble?”

Maggie swallowed back an over large amount of cider and felt a distinct warmth run from her throat to toes. She hoped she could keep her stomach in check, afraid she would lose her composure in front of all the men. As bad as that would be, it would still be a welcome respite to hearing the two men squawk like a pair of roosters over a pebble of feed at their feet.

“Nay. He brought plenty of warriors with him, no one would dare speak against him. The savage surely is a smart fellow,” Jonathon answered. “But those ones, the ones at the Ordinary now, they were with him.”

Maggie realized he meant Chetan and Makedewa, and her interest was suddenly held. Did they plan to attack soon? She slipped a hand defensively down over her belly. Benjamin noticed the gesture and patted her knee under the table.

“Yes, he is a smart one,” Benjamin agreed. “Perhaps I should speak with the natives about it. Would ye excuse me for a short time, dear? I will return soon.”

She nodded wordlessly. She was surprised he would go talk with the brothers, considering the role he played in Winn’s death. She was doubly shocked to see the braves in town so soon after the disaster, but sure as well it was part of their plan to extinguish the English. A flutter in her belly spoke volumes as she watched Benjamin walk toward the Indians, who were preparing to mount their ponies. Would her son ever know his people, or would they be his enemies, as most of the English looked upon them?

Relieved to see Benjamin clasp arms with both men, she tried not to appear too interested, but she abruptly realized it was all in her hands. Chetan and Makedewa were kin to her child, and she would be damned if she would be the one to break that bond. Perhaps Makedewa would not care to see her, but she was sure Chetan would, and she knew he would pass a message to Teyas who she missed terribly.

She dropped her mug to the table and went to meet them, ignoring the squawk Aunt Alice uttered and the furious glare Thomas sent her way. She cared no more what either of them thought, and she would not be kept silent any longer.

She silently practiced the Paspahegh words she knew in greeting, and finally decided that a simple How are you would do just fine.

“Kulamalsi hach?” she said as she approached. She noticed Benjamin appeared distressed, and for that she was sorry, but she hoped he would understand why she needed to speak to the brothers.

“Fire Heart,” Chetan greeted her, bending his head toward her in respect. Makedewa grunted and crossed his arms, but it was an acknowledgement and for that she was grateful. She wondered briefly why Chetan used the name Winn had often called her, the sound of the English version quite different than she was accustomed, but still the words stung her.

“Maggie, I was about to return to ye, there was no need for ye to fetch me,” Benjamin laughed, placing his hand on the small of her back. She noticed his voice tremor and ignored it, too eager to speak to the warriors, but he took her hand firmly and turned her back the way they came.

“But Benjamin, I only want to talk to them.”

“Good day, brothers,” Benjamin said curtly, forcibly guiding her away. She shook her head and shoved him, unable to tolerate his behavior when she only wanted to say a few words to them. Was this how it would be, whenever she wished to see them?

“No! I need to talk to them!”

“We wish happiness for you in your new marriage, Red Woman.”

Maggie balked at the sound of Makedewa’s cold voice. She turned back and saw Chetan glare at him and make a low barking sound as she had often heard an irritated warrior make, but Makedewa had her attention now and a sneering grin stretched across his face.

“And we will have a feast in honor of your child. May the Great Creator bless you and your husband.”

“What?” she whispered as the ground seemed to drop beneath her feet. She struggled to remain standing at the hate in his voice and the menace written on his face. He clearly despised her, more than he ever had, and by his words she suspected he thought Benjamin was the father of her babe.

What did it matter? Winn was gone. She could never go back to the Paspahegh village. Her child would never know a father other than Benjamin.

“Let us go,” Benjamin insisted. This time she let him lead her.

Benjamin seemed distracted the rest of the afternoon. The conversations between them were a mere barrage of polite responses, and when it was time to retire she was happy to put the day behind them. If he were sore at her for speaking to the warriors, she would gladly leave him to his sulking. She readied herself for bed and sank down into the deep feather mattress, her mind just as weary of the day as her tired body.

Maggie placed her hand on her taut rounded belly. Just a bulge, easily hidden under her skirts, but soon it would be more apparent and she dreaded anyone else knowing her condition.

Benjamin cracked the door and entered the room. He stared wordlessly at her now, and she could see his round blue eyes stained bloodshot, his shirt unbuttoned and skewed about his neck. He watched her as he undressed, shedding his waistcoat and shirt and stepping out of his tall boots.

“Benjamin, I am sorry if my speaking to the braves upset you,” she began, but he cut her off by raising one hand and a firm shake of his head.

“No, wife. I am not upset with ye.”

She inhaled as he approached the bed, working the clasp of his buckle to shed his breeches. A wisp of strong brandy, and the telltale remnants of sweet pipe smoke clung to his clothes, and she realized he must have taken his enjoyment before he came to bed. His hair was wild, frazzled in a mop that looked as if he had been running his fingers over his scalp, in his eyes a strange hollow look that reflected some sadness yet undisclosed. Perhaps he would only talk and fall asleep, as he usually did when he drank.

He slid under the quilts and pulled her gently to him, and she let out the breath of air she had been holding.

“Ye are my wife, by the King’s law,” he said softly, his breath hot against her neck. “My wife.”

She made no answer, frozen into helplessness as she lay in his arms. He seemed to need no response, as soon his breath grew shallow and the gentle snores of his inebriated sleep filled the room, and she was content to see his attentions distracted for the evening.

CHAPTER 33

Snow was still falling when Winn awoke. Although he could see the dark clouds overhead through the smoke hole from remnants of the last storm, he was warmed from the layers of furs that covered him. The fever had passed days ago, but his muscles still ached as if they had no strength and it was the most he could do to roll onto his side. He could only roll onto the right, lest he risk tearing open the healing wound to his left chest.

Chulensak Asuwak and Teyas tended him faithfully, taking turns cleaning the bullet wound, but despite their attentive efforts it festered anyway. When the fever took him they moved him to the sweat lodge for five days expecting either his death or recovery, he was not sure which. Whatever the intent had been at the time, he was grateful they cared enough to nurse him, since he would need to recover every ounce of his strength before he went to find his wife.

Winn expected the villagers to denounce him when he announced his bond to Maggie, but he was stunned to see that he retained their loyalty. He would never have asked it of them, knowing he risked his own life by defying Opechancanough, and he did not expect any other to stand by his side in defense of a Time Walker. Yet their love humbled him, and he gladly accepted it.

“Brother,” Chetan spoke as he entered the yehakin.

Winn opened his eyes and watched the warrior kneel beside him. His eyes were downcast, and by the lines creasing his face Winn could see he was troubled. Makedewa entered a moment later, yet he hung back, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Did you get word to her? Is she well? What say you?” he demanded, his hoarse voice rising as he surveyed his brothers. Winn had only been awake less than a day since the fever broke, but his first thought had been to retrieve Maggie. He knew she watched him fall from the rifle shot, and he feared she would think the worst when he did not return for her. Somehow he staggered out of the furs and made it to the door, but his brothers stopped him and insisted they would carry a message to her.

Now as he looked at the expressions of the two anxious men, he feared to hear their tale.

“She is well, brother. Benjamin Dixon tends to her,” Chetan said carefully. Winn noticed that Chetan glanced at Makedewa, who appeared ready to boil over as he waited to speak. Winn nodded with relief to Chetan and looked to his second brother.

“What, Makedewa? Does Chetan not speak truth?”

“He speaks true, brother. Yet he does not tell all. The Red Woman married Benjamin Dixon. She breeds his babe even now.”

Winn felt the grip of icy fingers around his neck as his blood rushed cold.

“You must be mistaken,” he growled.

“No, it is true. Benjamin told us both by his own tongue. I wanted to kill him and bring her back to you, but Chetan refused me. Give me your word, and I will go back to finish it,” Makedewa ground out.

Winn struggled to sit up and was glad the braves did not move to help him. He felt his wound tear, only a minimal disruption, but the healing flesh parted and a fresh gush of blood began to spread over the dressing on his chest.

“No. I do not believe it.” Winn grimaced and tried to stand, but at this both warriors moved forward to stop him.

“It is truth. I am sorry. I ask Makedewa to wait to hear your word before we act,” Chetan said.

Winn swallowed hard. Benjamin? The man he called brother left him for dead slung over the back of his horse, and then stole his woman? And what of Maggie – his wife, his heart? She would marry another, as if Winn had never existed? He remembered the words she once spoke during an argument.

A bad woman, she had said, as if the words were most distasteful. A woman who sleeps with any man.

No. He would not believe that of her. He would believe the vows they spoke. He could believe nothing else, or risk slipping back down deep into that dank place the fever took him to, that soulless void bereft of light.

“Leave me, brothers,” he said. “I will think on these things.”

CHAPTER 34

She tucked her hands beneath her thighs as she sat on the plank bench next to a young blond-haired girl. The girl did not talk much but Maggie did not mind, content to watch the others dance from her perch away from the festivity.

Benjamin stood across the barn with a handful of similarly dressed men, drinking from a pewter mug that he refilled at least twice from a cask at his feet. She hoped he would drink enough to ensure a quick slumber when they arrived home. He caught her eye and smiled, raising his mug up to her in salute through the crowd of dancers. She tilted her chin up to show him her acknowledgement, and he turned his attention back to the men.

A brisk fiddle beat filled the barn. It was a temporary meeting place in Wolstenholme town, sitting next to the community storehouse, serving the various needs of the citizens until more suitable accommodations were built. Although they went to church twice a day, the English spent an equal amount of time on their entertainment, finding some reason or another to drink and play music nearly every night.

“Would ye care to dance, Miss Dixon?”

She looked up at the grainy voice. Charles Potts stood beside her, hand outstretched in a most polite fashion. His stick-straight hair stood out like thorns beyond his brown woolen hat, his pox-marked face shaved clean for the evening, yet he still held an air of arrogance and she did not want to spend any time in his presence.

She shook her head demurely.

“I’m sorry, I fear I am taken a bit ill. I think I’ll take some air.”

“Are ye sure? Should I escort ye, miss?”

“Ah, no. Thank you,” she said firmly, putting a distinct end to the near uncomfortable discussion. He gave her a quick half-bow as she stood up. She left him standing there and made her way out of the barn.

Once outside, she leaned back on the plank wall and pulled her bodice away from her breast. It was damn hot in the place, with all the warm dancing bodies and half-soused men stumbling around. She fanned her neck and chest with her hand. There, that felt better.

The wail of the fiddle could still be heard, the stomps of the dancers thudding off the wall she leaned against. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back, her breath misting as it left her lungs in a sigh.

She thought she heard a rustle of leaves coming from the tree line, distinct from the pounding of dancing feet, yet still the fiddles wailed and she supposed it was only her imagination.

“Ye shouldna be out here by yer lonesome, Miss.”

Charles Potts stood in front of her, an arm’s length away, her cloak folded over his elbow. She scowled and snatched it from him, but he held onto it and used it as an excuse to move close to her. She shrunk back into the solid wall to keep a proper space between them, suspicious of the gleam in his muddy brown eyes. Her stomach curled when he spit out a chunk of wet tobacco at her feet.

“I’m fine, thank you. I’ll be going to find my husband now,” she said dismissively, trying to brush past him. His hand shot out to block her exit, braced against the barn at the height of her shoulders. She did not turn to look at him, gritting her jaw as she tried to keep her voice low. If there was one thing she knew for sure about the English, it was their distaste for public embarrassment, and if she caused a scene, she knew she would be considered the one at fault, not the teetering Master Potts.

“Are ye out here meeting someone? Maybe yer savage lover?” he sneered.

“You’re a disgusting sod. Let me pass!” she hissed. She shrugged off the hand he placed on her shoulder. “And keep your hands to yourself, you bloody bastard!”

The insult struck a nerve, and before she could get away he shoved her against the wall. His faced came close to hers in all its rancid glory, his breath like curdled milk tainted with ale. Her head snapped back painfully when he clamped a hand over her mouth.

“You best keep that trap shut, if ye know what’s good fer ye! Yer the blasted harlot who shacked up with the savages, are ye not?”

She cursed him, her words muffled under his hand. Suddenly he let go, looking her up and down from breast to toes, nodding to himself.

“Off with ye, now. I wouldna touch the leavings of an Indian, in any case,” he muttered.

She darted away, her cloak clutched in her hands. It was not the first time a man made inappropriate advances, and she was certain it would not be the last. The colony was sorely lacking in women, and when the men drank too much they could be quite obnoxious. Just like men of any other time, she thought angrily.

When she reached the inside of the barn without further pursuit, she stood there for a moment, scanning the crowd. Her heart hammered like a jackrabbit through her chest as she searched for Benjamin, who she finally spotted in a crowd of men. He saw her and grinned, and raised one finger with his brows raised at her. She nodded and took her former seat watching the dancers.

The frantic squeal of the fiddle rose above the laughter, a rhythmic illusion of happiness in the air. She felt the wetness on her cheek, streaking down as she closed her eyes, wishing the numbness to take her far away.

Looking around at English, skirts rustling and cloaks flinging in dance, she let out a sob and found camaraderie in the tears. Is this how her life would be, and endless cycle of aimless dance, pleasing her husband, pleasing the townsfolk, yet helpless to fill the empty pit where her heart once resided?

Now you will never be lonely, for we will be together.

His voice smothered the noise of the celebration. She could hear it as if he were next to her, holding her hand, brushing his lips across her cheek, the sweet simple touch of the man she missed so much.

But Winn, I am lonely.

She felt a wave of nausea, that gentle reminder of the life growing inside her. She placed her hand over her belly.

She would carry on, because she must. She would endure a life in his time without him, because she must. She would protect their son with the last bit of her breath, if it was needed of her.

And she would love Winn until the day she died.

The next night Maggie watched as Finola tended the last customer of the day. She was not often present when the healer closed down her wares for the evening, and frankly was puzzled Benjamin left her at the shop for such a lengthy visit. Whatever motive was behind his reasoning, she was grateful for it, happy to relax with Finola. The only comfort she felt of late was spent in the presence of the healer, the only person who knew all her secrets and accepted her as such.

“Some tea, child?” Finola asked. Maggie nodded and rose to help her with the heavy copper kettle.

“Here, let me.”

“Nay! Sit yerself, dear, I can manage.” The older woman tossed her long blond braid back over her shoulder, her brows raised as she surveyed Maggie. “Has the sickness passed yet? I fear ye eat not enough to feed the babe.”

“I’m eating more now, it will be enough,” Maggie assured her.

“Ye thinks the wean a boy or girl? I canna see myself what it is.”

Maggie smiled as Finola shook her head. The witch had been trying to see the sex of the babe for the last few weeks, eager to give an identity to the child. The English rarely asked for her predictions, so she was out of practice, and with a much more personal stake in the knowledge of Maggie’s pregnancy the woman tried every method she knew of to decipher what it would be.

“If only we had an ultrasound, there would be no question,” Maggie laughed.

“What do ye speak of? Tell me of this magic!”

“Ah, it’s no magic. Just a … a machine that makes a picture of the baby, inside the womb. It uses sound waves to make the image.” Maggie did the best she could explaining the marvelous use of the medical device. Finola was a most avid listener, devouring every tidbit Maggie explained of the life she left behind. In their frequent talks, Maggie had already described television and cameras, so the description of ultrasound was not too far of a leap to comprehend.

“Tis most useful then, this yulta-sound?”

“Yes,” Maggie sighed, knowing she would have no such comforts of the well-being of her babe during the pregnancy. Although she had no bleeding or other indication of problems, she still worried damage was done by the beating she endured. “I would give just about anything to have an ultrasound right now.”

Maggie felt Finola pat her hand, then the woman turned quickly back to the boiling kettle.

“Perhaps we should send ye back. Back to ye own time.”

Maggie froze. Surely, she had not heard the woman correctly. There was no way to return, Maggie had accepted that fact.

“There is no way to return, is there, Finola?” Maggie asked, her hoarse voice rising shrill the more she spoke. “Please tell me!”

“Aye, I know no way, without yer own Bloodstone,” the woman admitted, shaking her head with her eyes fastened on the mug of tea she poured. “But I will go to the Paspahegh village, and try to find it for ye, if that’s what you need to be happy, child.”

Maggie felt the wetness on her cheeks, unaware she was crying.

“You would do that for me?”

“Oh, I would,” the woman murmured, taking her into her arms. Maggie squeezed her tight, never in her life knowing what the embrace of a mother’s love felt like, yet knowing her friendship with Finola echoed the spirit of it. “Of course I would. If sending ye back to yer time would make it all easier to bear, then yes, I would.”

“I don’t know what I want,” Maggie sniffed, feeling the comfort of Finola gently patting her back. “I don’t know where I belong. Here, or in the future, I would still miss him. Can the Bloodstone take this pain away, can it make me forget? Or can it take me back…” she stood upright away from Finola, tremors overtaking her body as the ideas leapt into her mind. “Can I go back to stop it? Can I stop what happened that day, to save Winn?” She grabbed Finola’s hands, barely able to contain the rush of hope. They sat down together on a wooden bench.

“No, child. It does not work in such a way. You canna live a time more than once. And if ye do not know the runes to direct ye, ye should have a bit of yer place on ye when you go, so the Bloodstone knows where to send ye. It’s a tricky thing, ye see.”

“Runes? A bit of your place?”

“The mark of a rune will send ye to a place, but if ye have no rune, ye need a piece of the time yer meant for. Something tied to that place. Anything will do. A button, a brooch, any small tidbit of the time ye mean to travel to. It helps to point the way.”

Maggie reached into the folds of her apron and pulled out the raven. The pitted stone was heavy in her hand, but the tiny likeness felt solid. She held it out to Finola.

“Something like this? How could it matter, it’s just a toy.”

Finola reached slowly for the charm. The woman raised it up with both hands in front of her face, her blue eyes widening as she studied it. She looked at Maggie, then back to the stone raven, her mouth falling open.

“Where did ye get this?” Finola finally asked.

“I’ve had it since I was a child. It was a gift.” She smiled a bit at the memory of when Marcus gave her the raven. “I was told the raven would chase away my bad dreams, that no one could hurt me as long as the raven watched over me. I’ve kept it ever since. It traveled through time with me, it’s the only thing I have left from the place I come from.”

They both looked up at the creak of floorboards. Benjamin stood in the doorway. His face was etched in a mask, his skin pale beneath his crumpled brows. Behind him was Charles Potts. Maggie stood reflexively and patted down her apron, shielding her eyes as creeping fingers of panic gripped her. How much of their conversation had the men heard?

“Good day, Miss Finola,” Benjamin said. He nodded curtly to Finola, and took Maggie’s hand firmly in his. She did not resist the pressure of his touch, even though his fingers tightened so much she feared he would bruise her.

Maggie met Finola’s eyes. They shared one panicked glance before Benjamin pulled her into the street.

Maggie watched at the window for Benjamin’s return. He did not speak to her on the ride home, his gloved hands fisted over the reins, and she was reluctant to spark a conversation. It was clear he overheard some of the exchange, yet Maggie could not tell how much information he gleaned from his eavesdropping.

“Get ye in the house and wait for my return. Stay inside,” was all he uttered. He took a fresh horse from the barn and rode off back toward town, and it was the last Maggie had seen of him since he brought her home from her visit with Finola.

A wide bright moon lit the darkness as night wore on. After she had changed into a simple white shift and let her hair down for bed, she finally heard the pounding of hooves against earth and knew he had returned.

“Benjamin! I was worried!” she said as he crossed the room. The door slammed shut behind him with a thud and she felt the tremor of the floorboards beneath her bare feet with the force of it. He shed his cloak and hat, tossing them carelessly into a heap near the fire.

She took a deep breath to steady herself. Turning to the hearth, she reached for a bowl to ladle him a bit of stew, but stopped at the sound of his low, cold voice.

“I want truth between us, my wife,” he said evenly, advancing toward her one slow pace at a time. She equaled it by stepping backward, keeping the distance as best she could. She had never seen him so affected, not certain what emotion lay beneath his features as the veins on his neck bulged and sweat glistened on the chest exposed by his half-opened shirt.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied. He reeked of spirits, but his eyes were still sharp as he latched his steady gaze on her. She had never feared Benjamin, yet the manner in which he stalked her made her heart start to thud against her bodice. They had an arrangement; he would not come to her bed without invitation, and with the stench he carried in from the tavern she was certain that time would not be tonight.

Her hand bumped the latch to her bedroom, and she sprung it, trying to slam the door shut before he could reach it. She was certain he would be more reasonable in the morning after he slept off the liquor.

She made a grave error in thinking the door would deter him, and she shrieked when he shouldered the door before she could latch it, and he stalked toward her quickly now as if the door had been no barrier at all.

“Where do ye come from?” he shouted. “Who are yer people?” He grabbed her arms then, and it crossed her mind that she was frightfully tired of men grabbing her like a sack of potatoes. She tried to shake him off, but he was strong, after all, and clearly not ready to budge.

“Stop it!” she cried. He shook her hard.

“Did Winn know? Tell me!” She flinched at mention of his name, and he read the look on her face with ease.

“Stop it, Benjamin, stop it!” she yelled, finally wrenching away from him.

“Ye are my wife, before God we were married. Have ye no love for me at all? Have ye no care to tell me? Ye lay with Winn, tell him your secrets, yet I get not even a sliver of such truth from ye!”

“Benjamin, please—”

“Did ye go to him willingly, or did he kidnap ye?”

“Stop it,” she moaned.

“Tell me, wife!”

“Benjamin—”

“No more lies!” he roared.

She bit down hard on her bottom lip to quell her sobs. What did it matter now? Let him shout, let him prove he was her husband, let him sate his jealousy, and in the morning he would beg forgiveness and life would go on.

“Why was he worthy of yer secrets, yet I am not?” he demanded.

His shaking hands latched onto her upper arms, and she closed her eyes in anticipation against what was to come. His breath came fast on her skin, hot along her cheek as he took her face into his hands. The less she responded, the harder he held her, until his fingers dug into her tender skin and he drew away with a low uttered swear.

“I saw ye that night, when ye visited with him. I followed him into the woods. I watched him dishonor ye.” His throat constricted as he swallowed. “I thought of nothing but saving thee after that,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t need to be saved,” she whispered, tears bursting forth on her pale cheeks.

His lips twisted. “Even now, you love him, don’t you? You stand here as my wife, and still, you love him.”

She did not reply, but she knew he could read the truth on her face just as surely as she felt it in her heart. He dropped his hands away from her and stepped back.

“I thought I was the better man, but I am not,” he said softly. “Charles told the magistrate what we heard. I could not stop him. He’s accused ye of witchcraft. They want to hang thee, ye know.”

“And you? Do you think I’m a witch?” she asked, her chin tilting up a notch with her words.

“Yes, my wife,” he murmured. “I think…I think ye are.”

He closed the door behind him when he left, and the latch clicked to lock. She sat down on the bed in the room to wait.

They came for her at dawn.

She imagined a more orderly abduction, sure the English would treat a woman prisoner in a better fashion than Nemattanew had treated her, yet she was chagrined to discover just how brutal the cultivated whites could be. Bound fist and ankle, her mouth gagged with a dirty bit of rag, she succumbed to the arrest without a fight.

Benjamin watched from a few paces away. By his side stood Charles Potts, his hand resting on Benjamin’s shoulder in an apparent show of sympathy.

Someone was laughing, a frivolous, shrieking howl that nearly curled her toes inside her leather boots. It was not until they hurled her up into the wagon that she realized the laughter came from her own lips, only slightly muffled for their efforts to quiet her.

“This is ridiculous!” she screamed, the words emitted as a slur amidst her howling. Jonathon Pace bent over to tie her hands to the bench, and when he came in range, she butted her head against his with a crack. He uttered a rather feminine scream and fell back holding his nose, and then Charles leapt into the wagon.

“She hit me! The witch broke me nose!”

Charles glanced at the bleeding man, and then to Maggie. She shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes, and shouted a few foul responses into the rag before Charles lifted his revolver over her head.

“I’ll clout ye, witch. No more trouble, ye hear?” he snapped.

Bound beyond any hope of moving, her hands tied to the bench at her side, what other option did she have? She nodded in agreement and slid back as far as she could away from them.

“It’s a half-day ride to James City, best ye spend it praying fer yer black soul,” Charles added. He gave his companion a kerchief from his pocket, and they all settled back for the ride.

CHAPTER 35

Thump. Thump. Maggie grimaced at the infernal banging noise, her eyes still sealed shut from sleep.

Thump.

Damnit, there it was again. The back of her head began to ache, the steady pain washing through her skull in a rhythmic throb. She cracked her swollen eyelids and saw her hands sitting in her lap, bound by a coarse length of rope twisted into a double knot. The wagon lurched, and her head snapped back.

Thump.

The noise was her own head banging against the wooden wagon brace.

She adjusted her hips and squirmed back up against the pole, moving as little as possible when she spotted the three men resting across from her. Jonathon Pace and Charles Potts, still there. Great, the English had sent her to death accompanied by two village idiots. Not that it mattered anymore how her life ended, but she did take slight offense at the fact that her security team was chosen from among the incompetent.

Benjamin was the third man. While the two half-wits slumped dozing along with the rocking of the wagon, Benjamin sat across from her, his long legs sprawled so that his heels touched her toes, his arms crossed over his chest. He was staring straight at her.

Maggie bent her legs and pushed hard with her feet to shove away from him, which was not much considering that her ankles were still bound. He slowly uncrossed his arms and sat up, leaning forward toward her, and she flattened herself against the wagon brace to get away from him. His lips twisted at her evasion, but he continued to breach the space between them, placing two fingers to his mouth in a gesture to silence her. She had no reason to trust him, yet she remained quiet. He eyed the other two men, and once satisfied they slept, he swiftly moved across the wagon to take the bench beside her. His lips bent to her ear, but he did not touch her.

“Answer me this, Maggie,” he whispered. “Do you love Winn still?”

Her eyes felt too swollen to shed more tears, and thankfully, they were, because the sound of his name sliced through her heart like a blade and it was all she could do not to scream herself senseless. Did Benjamin wish to torture her, as if her mind were not already filled with visions of Winn as she rode to her death? How surely she had misjudged him, thinking Benjamin had a kind heart beating inside his chest.

“I have never stopped,” she said softly in reply. There was no more reason for lies between them. She expected the confirmation to wound him further, and wondered if he would be happy to see her hang. Perhaps she deserved his anger for his damaged pride, but she never imagined him such a callous beast.

Benjamin closed his eyes for a moment and then nodded, as if agreeing to his own internal dialogue. When he opened them, he took her bound hands to his lips and kissed them softly.

“Then go. Go to him.”

She panicked. What was he talking about? She had no time to consider his request. He leaned over and cut the rope that bound her ankles. Before he could free her wrists, Jonathon Pace stood up, and when he saw what Benjamin meant to do he reached for his pistol. Benjamin was faster, and took only a moment to wrestle the gun away and then shoot him point blank in the chest with his own pistol. His blue eyes were cool but steady when Charles jumped to his feet, saw his dead friend, and threw himself at Benjamin as the wagon came skidding to a stop.

“You killed him! You’ll hang for this, Dixon!” Charles shouted, his eyes darting from his dead friend to the eerily calm Benjamin.

Maggie heard horses screaming and the wagon lurched when the second shot went off, but she kept hanging onto the bench with her fingertips as the wagon tipped dangerously sideways.

With the second man wounded but still struggling, Benjamin glanced back at her.

“Benjamin!”

“Get out! Go, now!” he shouted. “So help me, Maggie, get out of this wagon! I won’t see you hang! Go!”

He pointed his hand, urging her to make escape, but when he turned his palm Maggie caught her breath, her feet frozen in place. It was not often that Benjamin went without gloves, and suddenly she understood why. Singed into his bare hand, pale and aged, was a carved entwined scar.

A knot that looked exactly like her own.

The mark of a Time Walker.

“Benjamin?” she whispered. Their eyes met one last time.

“Go!” he roared, then launched himself at Charles.

She braced against the beam and looked out the back, stumbling as the wagon shifted and falling to her knees. The wagon finally slid to a stop and she took the moment to jump out, landing on her hands and knees in the frigid creek bed. She scrambled to gather her sodden dress in her bound hands and crawled forward, making it up on one leg before she tripped on the heavy fabric and fell face first again.

The sound of screams and gunfire suddenly broke from the front wagon in the caravan, the cries of both horses and men shattering the air. She spit up creek water and tried to push herself back onto her knees, knowing she only had moments before they chased her. Bracing herself on her palms, she wrenched her skirt up to her thighs and rose up on bruised knees when she heard the splashing of footsteps through the water beside her.

She slowly looked up. Two chiseled legs attached to beaded moccasin boots stood before her, water dripping off the gleaming brown skin. A familiar face glared down at her, streaked with red war paint and his chest splattered with blood. Her heart sank as Makedewa bent down with one hand and swiftly jerked her to her feet, knife in his other hand.

She knew her pleas would mean nothing to him, and she would not give him the joy of seeing her beg before he gutted her. She closed her eyes and waited for the blow. Puzzled when it did not arrive, she cracked one eye open to peer at him, and watched as he slid the blade between her wrists and cut her bonds free.

“You are much trouble, Red Woman,” he growled. “Come!”

He pulled her through the shallow creek, away from the melee. She looked back at the caravan and shuddered, seeing dozens of Indians in battle with the English. One of the horses was down, struggling to rise, but caught in the stays of the wagon and unable to stand. Braves on their war ponies crashed through the water, their shrieks overtaking the cries of the English. She wondered where Benjamin was, and grabbed Makedewa’s arm.

“We have to help Benjamin! He killed two men to help me escape— we can’t leave him to die!”

“No! We leave now!” he shouted. She balked and twisted away when he tried to stop her, his hands like steel around her waist as he refused to let her go back.

The bellow of war cries pierced the air and the hooves of running horses sent water splashing in all directions. More warriors approached, a sorrel pony leading them, the gleaming warrior astride its back afire with rage and headed straight for them.

The warrior’s chest and face was smeared with red war paint, his head flanked by a crescent of black tipped eagle feathers. His face contorted when he screamed their fierce cry, water spraying around him as he galloped down the creek bed toward them. As Makedewa’s hands tightened on her waist she realized he meant to pass her off to the rider and she tried to twist away from him.

Makedewa gripped her forearms with a grunt as the rider thundered toward them, and in the moment before he thrust her upward into the warrior’s outstretched arm she wondered if she imagined the flash of bright blue eyes beneath the paint.

The horse scrambled up the riverbank until it was on solid ground, and she grasped its mane to keep from falling off. Half perched, sliding against his chest, he yanked her closer as another rider approached. She recognized Chetan as the second rider in all his war glory, all trace of his gentle nature shadowed by his finery. He nodded at them.

“Go. Take her. We will finish this.” Chetan issued the order to her captor and immediately spun his pony around to rejoin the fight. Had even Chetan abandoned her, and agreed to obey Opechancanough by seeing her dead?

She had no power to speak, afraid to utter a single syllable or to even look at the warrior behind her. The horse carried them up through a hill pass, then burrowed down deep through a valley where they put space between them and the English. They came upon a familiar formation splitting the mountains, where a waterfall graced a narrow ledge. The horse navigated the path with a steady pace, and Maggie gasped as they passed through the waterfall.

She sat soaked and shaking, but the warrior gave nothing away, and they made tracks out the back of the waterfall through a crevice which led to a sloped grassy alcove.

They had been there together once before. Unchanged since that day, yet still different than when she would live there, the site of her future home awaited them. She remembered him dancing away from the brown bear, saving her life. He took her heart into his keeping that day, and she realized with a pang of despair it was no longer hers to control.

The mouth of a cave was partially concealed in the jagged rock crevice. The rider sat back and the horse came obediently to a stop.

She thought she had no tears left, but when the warrior dipped his head to her shoulder and his arms tightened around her waist, tears came. His voice, strained and low, echoed against her ear.

“Go inside, Tentay teh. A fire burns. I will return soon.”

PART FOUR

CHAPTER 36

Maggie waited for Winn to return as the hours stretched on. She could not control the shaking that wracked her body, and if it stemmed from the cold or the knowledge that Winn lived, she did not know. The long muslin dress was soaked through, the fabric wrapped around her legs and the weight of the layers still pulling her down. She needed to get warm. Standing above the fire, she tried to unfasten the front of her shift, but her fingers were numb and slipped off the tiny buttons. Her teeth chattered and snapped together as the shaking overcame her again, and this time it brought her to her knees.

Winn entered the cave entrance as she gave up on her bindings and pulled a fur up around her shoulders. His blue eyes locked with hers and he slowly approached, his gaze never wavering even as the fur slid from her shoulders in a heap around her hips. The traveling sack fell out of his hand and he dropped to his knees beside her.

“You’re here. You’re really here,” she whispered.

It was all a lie. Winn was warm and breathing and very much alive in front of her. She needed to tell him everything, tell him about the child, and tell him how much she loved him. She needed to touch him, to feel his skin, to know he was truly there. It was the only way she could be certain he was not one of her desperate dreams.

“You’re freezing,” he said softly.

Her eyes glazed over and Winn was a blur as he bent to help her. He kneeled beside her, and she felt the fabric of her shift give way. He tore off some of the buttons in his haste to rid her of the wet garment, and continued to shed sopping wet fabric from her body until only her thin damp shift remained. She felt him gather her against his warm skin, sharing his heat. He wrapped a dry fur around them both and lay down next to the fire, rubbing her arms to return blood to her frigid limbs.

Maggie reached for him, but his hand circled her wrist and stopped her attempt. He brought her palm upward and gently pressed it to his lips, closing his eyes.

“Oh, Winn,” she whispered. He grasped her face in both hands, his eyes searing through to her soul. She moved closer in his arms, and a strangled groan escaped him when she laid a hand over the ragged healing scar on his bare chest. It was the wound he suffered on the day she believed he had died.

He abruptly pulled back, holding her at the length of his arms as if she burned. Confused, she bit back her unease. Why was he pushing her away?

“I have a gift for you,” he said, his voice low. He pulled the fallen fur up over her shoulders, his motions mechanical. A measure of fear replaced her confusion, washing through her blood and leaving a sickly bile sensation in her belly, and when he held the gift out to her, she stifled her cry.

He held the Bloodstone. Although it was wrapped in copper and attached to a long rawhide lanyard, she knew it was the same stone that had brought her to his time. When she did not move to take it, he placed it in her hands and stood up, his face a vacant mask that betrayed no hint of the man she loved.

“You will use the Bloodstone to return…to return to your time,” he said. “We will leave when night falls. I will see you safely home.”

“No, Winn, I won’t go.”

“You will. There is nothing for you here.”

She blinked back tears. Anger began to replace her despair, rising rapidly to snatch what control she had left. She could not believe he was casting her away, as if he felt nothing for her. Her pride refused to accept his answer, and with shaking fists clenched to her sides she glared back at his stoic face. She grasped the fur to her shoulders and stood to follow him.

“There is nothing here for me, Winn? Then why did you save me from the English?”

“I would not see them hang you. And it pleased me to take you from your English husband.” His dismissal stung, but still inflamed her.

“So you do care,” she accused, reaching for him. He grabbed her by both shoulders, the fur sinking to the ground in a heap. His eyes bored through her and his fingers dug painfully into her skin.

“Do I care you chose the Englishman? I did at one time, but no more. You made your choice.”

She slapped him. He turned his cheek but remained otherwise still, although his grip on her arm tightened. Stunned at his lack of emotion, she moved to strike him again, but this time he grabbed her wrist and twisted it, then dropped it as if it burned him.

He turned and left her alone, stalking away out of the cave.

Stunned, she could find no words. She stared at the Bloodstone. It was her Bloodstone, the one she arrived with, the one he hid from her all along. She turned it over in her hand, felt the warmth that spread up her arm. Yes, Winn had kept the stone from her. But would a man who worked so hard to keep her trapped in his time suddenly have a change of heart? For weeks now she had thought him dead. Had he stopped loving her in that time as well? How could he abandon her when she needed him the most? He owed her an explanation. Yes, he had suffered—but she had suffered, too.

Maggie clutched the fur around her shoulders and followed him. The bottoms of her feet felt numb as she stumbled along the rocky path. She approached, determined to make him listen, her frustration and pain spilling forth when she grabbed his arm.

“You are a stubborn fool, Winkeohkwet. When did you turn into such a – such a half man?” she demanded. “I thought you were brave – you said you would always come for me! Yet you left me there. Was that a lie, Winn? A lie from a sorry excuse for a man?”

His hands bunched into fists and he stepped back from her, his eyes flashing like black jade. She could see every muscle of his chest tense, the sinews in his thick arms straining as he listened to her taunts.

“I took care of myself when I thought you were dead,” she continued. “I did what I had to do to survive. And I’m still standing.” Her voice cracked with the last, and she was not sure if he would even respond by the way he looked at her. Was that passion in his eyes, or hate?

She glared at him, her breath coming in short gasps, and was caught completely off guard when he grabbed her. Squirming in his arms, she scowled at him, causing him to grasp her face with one hand and hold her with the other. His breath left a brand on her skin, sending ripples of electricity down her spine.

“Why do you taunt me, Maggie? Do you think I can forget? That it does not burn me, the thought of you with him?”

“Then release me, if you hate me so much!” she cried.

His eyes were glazed over as if he could see through her, and she could feel the torture of longing running through her starving blood. She did not recognize the man behind the embers of his eyes, his soul consumed by the raging fire, his fingers searing into her skin like burning coals. His thumb brushed over her lower lip.

“Did you tell him you loved him with these lips?”

Maggie’s eyes widened when she realized what he meant. Winn thought she wanted Benjamin. He believed she loved Benjamin.

She had to tell him the truth, make him understand it was never about love. She could not let him believe such a lie.

“Halloo! Winkeohkwet!”

The familiar call of his brother echoed in the tense air. Time screeched to a stop. Winn held her tightly, his hard gaze imprisoning her in place. The rush of water from the falls sounded so loud, nearly as loud as Winn’s stilted breathing, filling the air between them. He let her go and she slowly stepped back away from him. His eyes, once crazed with anger, now echoed with regret.

She struggled to control her shaking. He shouted a greeting in reply to his brothers and stood for a moment with his back to her, his shoulders betraying emotion left unspoken as they heaved and lowered. He finally turned to her, his fists clenched at his sides and his voice cold.

“Go back to the cave. Wait there until I return.”

It was far from her nature to give in when he gave such commands, but she knew she had no choice but to obey.

Winn could pretend she was nothing to him and claim he no longer loved her, but she knew him better than that. She doused her despair with the surge of anger rising in her blood, and lifted her chin as she straightened her back. She stalked away to the cave where the fire still burned, her auburn hair whipping in her wake.

Winn did not follow her. She dressed in what was left of her torn garments and watched silently as they prepared to leave.

CHAPTER 37

Winn sat ready on his horse. His mount stomped impatiently beneath his body, as if sensing what his master would do. One of the other men gave word to depart, but Winn knew he could not yet go. Chetan gave him a hard look, shaking his head with a sigh when Winn raised his hand to stop them. His glare was full of knowing, as if his brother could read the thoughts that haunted him. The other men did not appear surprised to see Winn dismount and stalk back toward the cave. Someone chuckled, obviously amused at the warrior. Their grumbles meant nothing to him, as they were nothing to him.

He had no plan and knew nothing of what he would do when he saw her. He simmered with rage at her, yet the anger he carried in check was more for himself.

Ntehem, his heart, his love.

How could he still want her? He should not, but he did.

To have her back in his arms after all this time, to touch her soft skin, was torture. He was a liar, and a bad one at that, for he was certain she could see straight through to his soul. It wounded him to know she loved the Englishman and to know she carried the man’s child. That was the crux of it, he knew—if she truly still loved him, he would take her no matter who sired the child in her womb. Yet he could not keep her when she loved another.

It was an unbearable truth, one that could not be denied. There was nothing in the world that could make her abandon her stubborn nature, of that, Winn was certain. She had not denied his words when he spoke of her husband, in fact, it only seemed to inflame her, and Winn vividly recalled the way she once insisted she could not lay with a man she did not love.

It did not matter any longer. He would not keep a woman who loved another. The bitterness was too strong, and he knew if she stayed, he would become a man he did not wish to be and that he would do things to her that he would regret. Yes, he loved her, but he would let her go. The last gift he could give her was the safety of her own time in the future. Suddenly the only thing he knew was that he needed to make her understand.

Words failed him as he approached her. He meant to tell her he loved her and that no matter what, he always would. There were sweet words he knew would soothe her fire so she could listen, but none of the words emerged. He wanted her safe, but he wanted to ravage her. He wanted to leave her, but the thought of life without her shattered his heart. None of it made sense, the conflict driving his blood frantic through his veins, pounding in his chest.

Her half-dried hair fell in amber ringlets around her shoulders. When he entered the cave she glared at him in challenge, and he was lost. In seconds he crossed the space and was on her, eliciting a startled cry before he crushed his mouth to hers.

The feel of her in his arms, her skin sliding against his, sent his senses to that place between darkness and light where he could hold her forever and never account for his sins. There he could possess her soul, hold it captive, pretend she felt love for no other, let her soothe the aching emptiness she left in the hollow of his chest.

He clutched her so tightly he could feel her heart pounding against his chest, until he broke the heated kiss and lowered his forehead against her shoulder. She looked up when he raised his head, meeting his gaze with the beginning of a shy smile.

Her smile tore a hole through his heart.

She looked radiant. Happy. Like a woman in love.

But he knew better, and he hated himself for needing more from her, for needing her whole heart instead of fragments of what they once shared. Perhaps she had stared at her English husband the same way.

“Did he ever kiss you like that, Fire Heart?” he asked, the words seeming to come from some foreign place he no longer recognized. He knew he was a swine. Her rosy cheeks suddenly lost color and tears rimmed her eyes at his words. He deflected her blow but held her wrist tight.

“Winn…” she whispered. He released his grip on her and slowly retreated. He had to put distance between them before his shattered pride begged her to love him once more, and he resorted to taking what scraps she might bestow upon him.

“Stay here. When I return, I will show you how to use the stone and you will go home. You will be safe in your future time. There is nothing left for you here.”

Winn stepped back, his throat tight and dry with the cruelty of his own words.

He turned and left.

It was finished. He would send her back with the Bloodstone to the life she missed, the only gift he could give her, sending her away with the broken remnants of his blackened heart in her keeping.

It had only taken minutes for Winn to rejoin the others, but he could see from their stares they wondered what had happened. He ignored Chetan’s questioning glance as he stalked to his mount and threw himself astride.

They searched the site of the ambush, but the English were long gone. One wagon remained, the horse lathered and heaving as it lay in the creek with the cold water rushing over its broken leg. Makedewa put an arrow through its skull to give it peace, and the animal ceased its struggle.

“Two whites were left. I saw them ride back to Wolstenholme Towne. They had Benjamin Dixon bound and took him as well,” Makedewa said, swinging his bow over his back. “I followed them for some time. They say they will see him hang.”

“Let him hang,” Winn muttered, turning his shoulder to his brother. Their plan was to find The Pale Witch and bring her to safety before the attack on the whites was put in motion, and he would not be swayed. He knew his actions only drove the wedge deeper between him and his uncle, but Winn would not allow Maggie or his grandmother to die in the Great Assault. She was no longer his wife, but he would not let her be harmed.

Maggie was safe. Soon Finola would be as well. If the Creator meant for him to kill more Englishmen, then he would gladly do it. Perhaps the blood would silence the shouts in his head, quell the anger he felt. It might ease the burden of knowing he had lost everything.

He walked off a few paces and pulled his breechcloth aside to relieve himself before they mounted the horses again. Damn Benjamin, let him hang for what he had done, Winn thought bitterly as the stream came forth onto the soil. What kind of man could let his wife hang? As much as Maggie had ever enraged him, and no matter what had been left unsaid between them, he would still die himself before he watched her swing from a noose. It hardened his heart to know a man he once called brother held so little care for the woman he took such trouble to steal away from him. If Winn and his brothers had arrived moments later, they would have missed the Englishmen taking Maggie away in the wagon. She would be dead, because of Benjamin.

The stream ended, and Winn replaced his breechcloth, dropping it back in place and then tightening the cord at his waist. An image of Maggie entered his vision, when he helped her shed her wet dress and she kneeled beside him in her damp cotton shift. By the Creator, he would remember her that way for all of his days, the curve of her sweet rounded belly beneath his hand, her eyes alight as if she still belonged to him. He shook off the memory before the urge to turn his horse around took over.

“What is it, brother?”

Winn did not turn to Makedewa, struggling to keep his voice even.

“Tell me again what you know. How far gone is Maggie with the child?”

“I know not. Benjamin Dixon said she breeds, but not how long.”

Bile burned his throat as he realized the truth. Her protests, her anger when he taunted her about Benjamin. Her swollen belly, her heavy breasts. He had seen many women with child, and suddenly it hit him that Maggie was not newly pregnant, she looked a few months gone. In his jealous rage, he failed to realize the truth. She was carrying his child. That is what she had tried to tell him, and he was too foolish and jaded in his jealousy to listen to the truth. He thought he would vomit. He was a fool.

“Dixon is mine to kill when we arrive.” Winn walked away from him, but Makedewa followed at his flank, his face wide in astonishment.

“What mean you? I thought –”

“That one…he deserves death for his deceit.” He let his words fall off, unwilling to meet his brother’s eye at his rash change in plan. “You say they took Benjamin back to town?”

“Yes, he was bound and gagged. I think they beat him as well, his face looked like deer meat,” Makedewa grinned, but then became thoughtful. “You know, brother, she will hate you if you kill the father of her child.”

“The child she carries is my blood.”

Winn scowled and Makedewa raised an eyebrow but refrained from asking any more questions.

CHAPTER 38

Maggie left her horse ground tied in the woods, and made the rest of the way on foot. She was close enough to town, and although she knew a way to steal inside near Finola’s cabin, she thought the horse was better off hidden in the brush. She knew if she was spotted there would be no way out this time. Although she tried to hide her flaming hair by dividing it into two thick braids, she would not go unnoticed by any stretch of imagination.

Winn was going to kill her if he discovered she left the cave. Well, she’d be back before he returned, and then they would pick up where they left off.

The fact that Winn was alive still stung her, and his hateful parting words left her reeling. She did not know which emotion was stronger, the frustration and rage she wished to return to him, or the desperate heartache that threatened to break her down. How could he be so cruel? He had no idea what she had been through. She had done what she had to do to ensure the future of their child, yet he behaved as if she had some choice in the matter. She had no choice in being kidnapped, nor in anything else that happened – yet she was still standing, and she would still try to make Winn understand.

Yet there was one thing she must do before that happened. She heard the men talking about Benjamin. Despite what he had done, he had chosen to save her in the end. After trying to reason with Winn, Maggie could certainly understand how betrayal and the pain of a broken heart could make a person do things in anger. She did not love him, but she could not leave Benjamin to die.

She came up behind Finola’s cabin and peeked around a corner toward the church, knowing most of the activity took place down that end of town and people tended to gather nearby. The sun had barely risen for the day so she did not expect much activity, and she was lucky to find no prying eyes as she darted through the front door of the cabin. She slammed it closed behind her and immediately checked the lone window. Satisfied no one approached, she turned to Finola.

“Maggie?” the older woman cried, swiftly crossing the room and throwing her arms around her. Maggie clutched her in return as they cried, while Finola patted her face and kissed her cheeks in joy.

“How did ye escape them? Was it Benjamin? He promised me he would free ye! Why did you come back, girl, ye must go! Ye cannot stay here!”

“Finola, he saved me. He killed two men to set me free. We have to help him.”

“Ye make no sense! Ye must leave this place! Go to Chetan, he may know where Winn hid your Bloodstone, and ‘tis the only way for ye to return to your time. Please, Maggie,” Finola pleaded, grasping her hands tightly in her own. “Winn would have wanted you safe. It is the only way.”

Maggie felt her throat tense. She gripped Finola’s hands tighter so she could find the right words.

“Winn is not dead, Finola. He lives still.” Her explanation came forth in a rush, jumbled and scattered, but the truth none the same. Finola froze at her tale, nary taking a breath, until tears began to stream down her beautiful weathered face.

“My grandson lives,” Finola whispered. Maggie held her again as they both cried.

“Yes. I’ll take you to him. But we need to help Benjamin right now. He—he’s a Time Walker, like me,” Maggie said. “We’ll help Benjamin, and then join the others. Winn left me in a cave, I’m sure I can find the way back to it.”

Maggie shrugged off the lingering anger she held for Winn, still overcome by relief that he was alive. Yes, Winn would be furious she left the cave, but she would be damned if she let the brooding warrior make demands after he let her believe he was dead for so long. She could stomp off in a temper just as well as he could, and if he was hell bent on pushing her away, then she would make him pay for it.

Finola considered her words for a tenuous moment, then patted her hand.

“I will bring Benjamin his Bloodstone. It is the only way to free him now.”

Maggie sat down hard on a bench as Finola recounted her tale. Finola was there the day Benjamin was found by the English, a skinny, mute, starving boy dressed in strange blue trousers and half mad with hunger. Adopted by Agatha Dixon, Finola helped nurse the ten-year old back to health, and he eventually found his tongue.

She kept the secrets he shared with her about the strange place he came from, a place where children drove things called bicycles and adults put their offspring in daycare all week. He spoke of a father he rarely saw, but cried when he could no longer remember his face. She kept his darkest secret safely in her cabin, swathed in silk and tucked underneath her mattress. She had found the loose stone in his pocket, a near black Bloodstone creased with a single vein of crimson, and she wrapped it copper and hung it from a rawhide cord in anticipation of the day he might wear it around his neck.

“Benjamin was a Blooded One,” she whispered, already knowing the answer. “A Time Walker. He was marked like me.” She saw the brand that seared him when he set her free in the wagon, the mark that mirrored the one on her own hand. She held her scarred palm out to Finola, who nodded sadly.

“I know not from what time he comes.”

“We need to get it to him. He can go back to his own time and be safe again.”

The woman frowned as she considered it. “It is too dangerous, child. What if they see you?”

“We have to try. I can’t just let him die. He saved my life, even if he took his sweet time about it. If we can send him back, we have to risk it.”

“Well,” Finola said, looking her up and down with a frown. “Ye best change into something suitable, and take ye my cloak. Get ye dressed, and hurry about it.”

Maggie nodded, wordless. Finola placed a cap over her bright blond locks and put a cape over her shoulders, and Maggie changed quickly into one of her dresses. She tucked her hair under a white bonnet and donned a hooded cloak, which shielded her face when she kept it lowered.

She hoped they would never suspect she might return to town. Hell, she knew it was not one of her best schemes, but she found her actions fueled by pure adrenaline after the way Winn left her.

Finola’s dress was quite serviceable yet much less appropriate for scrambling through the underbrush. It would have to do. Dressed like an Englishwoman, Maggie hoped she would blend in without much notice as they walked through town to the church.

“Let’s go, before I change my mind,” Finola murmured, and Maggie complied. They left the store, arm in arm, walking briskly down the street toward the church where they held Benjamin.

Maggie peered out from under her hood at the lone man guarding the church and let out a sigh. She had never seen the man before, so hopefully he would not recognize her. Even with such luck, she clung to Finola’s arm and let the healer do the talking.

“I would see Benjamin Dixon to pray with him. Ye would not deny the man such comfort in his last hours?”

“Nay, Miss. But be quick about it. The Gov’ner will have my neck if ye dally.”

“Thank ye, sir. We shall not tarry.”

They entered the church and closed the heavy door behind them. Maggie flung the hood off her head when she saw it was empty save for Benjamin, tied neatly to a pew.

They ran down the aisle to him, with Finola fumbling for the Bloodstone as she dropped down beside him.

“Benjamin!” she hissed. “Wake up!”

When he did not stir, Maggie shook his shoulders as hard as she could, unwilling to slap him when his face was so bruised and beaten. The wood pew shuddered beneath them when he jerked upright with a groan.

“Maggie? What?” he said, seeming confused at first. He glanced around with his demeanor changed, and he glared at her as if she were the devil.

“Why are ye here?” he demanded. “Have ye not a lick of sense in yer brain? Did I set ye free for naught?”

“Benjamin –” she said, trying to get his attention.

“And you, Finola! Of all of them, ye would help her? Ah, get ye gone, the both of ye! Let me die without the lot of ye wailing about it.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Benjamin! Shut up for one minute!” she snapped, thrusting the Bloodstone into his hand. “You can go home now, and leave this all behind. I won’t let you die for this, you idiot!”

He jumped back away from the Bloodstone as if burned, his skin draining to a sickly grey pallor.

“Get that away from me!”

“Take it, you stubborn ox!”

“Nay, I will take none of ye cursed magic!”

“You’d rather die here, at the end of a rope?” Maggie asked.

“Do ye seek to punish me for my sins, witch? Yes, I knew Winn lived. Yes, I told his brothers ye carried my child, and now I will hang for what I’ve done. Let me hang in peace, and take that cursed stone away!”

“You—what?” she screamed. “You knew all along? You let me think he was dead! How could you?”

Maggie leapt at him then, screeching out her anger at his deceit. He gave no resistance, letting her strike him even as welts formed across his face from her blows. Finola pulled her off him as best she could.

“Enough, child, enough!” Finola cried.

“How could you do it? You knew the whole time? You let me mourn him. Did you plan this—this whole thing?” Maggie whispered. She knew he heard it, she could see by the way his shoulders slumped in defeat. Eyes rimmed red, he looked up at her as she strained against Finola with intent to attack him again.

“I sent him back to the village on his horse, he was near death. I was sure he died,” he admitted. “He asked me to take care of you. I thought he was gone.”

“But you knew he survived. It was that day in town, when you spoke to Makedewa and Chetan, wasn’t it?” she said softly, knowing what his answer would be before he nodded.

“Yes. They told me he was gravely wounded, but that he lived,” he said. “I knew you would want to go to him. I thought I could keep you – I thought you might love me too, someday, when your memory of him faded. By then, you were my wife…and I did not want to lose you.”

Maggie felt her knees give way and she sank down beside him on the bench.

“You did a good job hiding your scar all this time,” she whispered. Would it have mattered if she knew he was a Time Walker? She did not know, but she felt like there was much more to his story than either Finola or Benjamin had revealed.

“She told me to keep it secret, as if my life depended on it,” he looked at Finola. “It was easy enough to hide.”

Maggie nodded. She knew how one might hide a small scar on the palm. After all, it was a chore she had grown quite adept at as well.

Finola reached into her pocket as Benjamin shrunk away from them. He could hardly move due to the binding, but he made quite an effort, so much that Maggie thought he would cut off circulation to his wrists.

If only it were his blasted lying neck, they would be through with him. Perhaps she should let him hang after all.

“Here. You will need this to return to your time,” Finola said, holding the object out to him.

Maggie felt the breath leave her body as she looked at the object in Finola’s hand. Sitting there, pitted and scarred, just about the size of her palm, was a stone eagle.

The mate of her raven. She had last seen it in the hand of her childhood playmate, what seemed a hundred years ago.

Marcus’s son.

She was frozen in place, watching as if she had left her body, staring at the scene in front of her yet not truly living it.

Finola took a small blade from her pocket, and Benjamin held out his hand. He nodded, resigned, tears streaming down his face.

“Tell me, Finola, that I shall not go to hell by using this magic,” he begged. His outstretched hand wavered until she took it into her own. Finola cut the rope from his bound wrists.

“Nay, dearest. Ye only go back where ye belong.”

With a flick of her wrist, the Pale Witch sliced his hand and placed the Bloodstone in his palm. As she closed his fingers over the stone, Maggie took the raven from her pocket.

“Oh, Benjamin. I didn’t know,” she whispered.

He kneeled down on the ground, the pulse throbbing in his temple as he gripped the stone, his tortured gaze boring into Maggie as if there might be some semblance of care left between them. His eyes widened with recognition when he saw the raven, and then they watched him flicker like a ghost until he was no more.

“Tell your father I love him.” she said softly.

Finola patted her shoulder.

Finola ladled stew for them both into glass bowls and set them on the table. Maggie stared at it, unmoving, unwilling to acknowledge the events of the day. The healer ate in silence, casting Maggie an occasional raised eyebrow, but otherwise leaving her to her own thoughts.

They both looked up when the door opened.

“Ah, I beg yer pardon, but the store is not open today,” Finola twittered as an unfamiliar brave entered the parlor. He made no sign of hearing her. The scalplock hair made Maggie nervous. She wondered what tribe he hailed from, and why he chose Finola’s store when it was in Paspahegh territory.

“Perhaps ye did not hear me, sir,” Finola said. The braves studied the axe hanging above the mantle. Her heart leapt into her throat when he pulled it down from its hooks.

“That is not for sale, sir!” Finola cried.

Maggie grabbed Finola’s hand, and swung up the brace holding the door. Too late by far, she retreated slowly backward as another unfamiliar brave entered the house. He held a knife in one hand, and wore an empty stare as he approached, his skin smeared with not war paint, but blood. He did not look dressed for attack but his demeanor clearly spoke otherwise, and Maggie swallowed down a hard lump in her throat as he spoke to the first man. She pushed Finola back. She knew exactly what was happening. It was why Winn left her in the cave, and why he left with his brothers.

It was the day she dreaded would come.

She knew few details, the occurrence only one tiny speck amongst the inkblot of history she learned as a child, but of what she could recall, it began in an innocent manner.

In the Indian Massacre of 1622, even women and children were slaughtered. The Indians came unarmed into the homes of the English, and under guise of selling provisions, used whatever tools lay about to kill them. At Martin’s Hundred, more than half were killed, and only two houses and the church left standing.

“Leave us be,” Maggie demanded, her voice much braver than she felt. She gasped when Finola tried to strike the man with her knife and was cruelly knocked to the floor.

“No!” Maggie tried to get to Finola, but the first man grabbed her by the throat and shoved her back against the hearth. She clawed at his wrist as her airway was squeezed, wheezing a single breath when he took her braid in his fist and pulled her head back. He thrust his face close to hers, and she winced at his rancid breath, rapidly losing consciousness for the lack of air. The next moments were a blur. She heard the door crash open and a clamor of men shouting in Paspahegh, but she felt very little as her body slumped to the floor by the hearth.

Two firm hands pulled her to a sitting position, and she began to choke at the influx of air that suddenly rushed into her lungs. Tears flooded her vision and she reached out in a panic to ward off the one who held her, slapping and scratching like a cat. She felt her nails connect with flesh and heard a low uttered curse, but instead of the blow she expected, she was crushed against a wide warm chest.

“Maggie, shhh, stop fighting me,” Winn whispered. She shuddered as she gasped for air, clutching his shoulders at first but then pushing him away.

“You!” she shouted. “Have you come to finish me off?”

His jaw hardened and his blue eyes bore down on her.

“No, Keptchat! I kill my kind to save your blasted white skin!” he snarled, glancing toward the two dead warriors on the floor. Chetan stood behind him, and Makedewa had Finola cradled in his arms. “Why do you not listen? I told you to stay at the cave!”

“I had to help Benjamin!”

“Benjamin? You help him, a man that sends you to hang? You would be dead right now if we did not come for Finola! Dead, woman! Damn you!” he roared.

Maggie struck out at him and he lunged forward on his knees, shoving her back against the mantle. He took the fallen axe at his side and pounded it into the wall where it split the wood with a sickly cracking sound beside her head. She did not flinch, glowering back at him in defiance, wordless in her fury as her chest heaved and her heart thundered.

“He’s a Blooded One, like me! He came from my time!” she shouted. She could see the pulse in his neck throbbing as he grabbed both her shoulders, his fingers digging into her skin.

“So you risk your life – and the life of my son – for him?”

Chetan grabbed her forearm and hauled her to her feet, his other hand firm against Winn’s chest to hold him off when Winn stood up and reached for her.

“This fight will wait,” he said. “I will take her with me. We must go.” Chetan glared at Winn in challenge, and Winn punched his brother’s fist away.

“No. She rides with me,” he growled, snatching her hand away from Chetan. Maggie scowled, but did not argue. Chetan was right, they needed to leave.

Winn held her wrist in an unbreakable grip as he pulled her through the streets of Wolstenholme Towne. She followed mutely behind as their small group navigated the clay packed path, Chetan leading the way. Shorter than the other men, with sharp eyes and a distinct sense of direction, Chetan ushered them quietly along.

The silence in the air was unexpected as they tried to steal out of town unnoticed. Maggie looked at Winn’s chest, splattered with fresh blood, and wondered if he had taken part in the planned massacre before he found them. The blood did not belong to him and she could see his body remained undamaged, yet she could not fathom if that was a comforting fact or not.

As they rounded the corner of a house, a woman’s scream pierced the air followed by a sickening thump. Heavy footsteps thudded over plank flooring, tap, tap, tapping as they approached. Maggie stood paralyzed as the front door flew open and Master John Boise came running out, stumbling down the stairs, his eyes wild with fear. He saw her there with Winn and his face crumpled.

“Oh, Miss! Run! Run, get ye gone!” he cried. He reached out for her hand, but before he could grab her, he fell face down to the ground with a distinct uttered sigh, a bloody axe impaled along his spine.

A warrior left the house closest to them. The unfamiliar brave approached them, his stride long and even, a tall, muscular fellow with bulging biceps and a single feather tucked in his hair, yet he stood otherwise undecorated. Maggie remembered that it was part of their plan, to arrive as any other day, and take the settlers by surprise.

She looked up at Winn, decorated more extravagantly with his war paint and feathers, looking every bit the mythical warrior, as did Chetan. She had no time to wonder why when he suddenly snatched her roughly around the neck with one arm and placed a knife to her throat. He barked something at his brothers, and she watched helplessly as they spoke.

The warrior asked Winn a question, and Winn made an equally brisk response.

“I take this one. Find your own!” Winn growled. Maggie twisted against his steel embrace, elbowing him sharply in the ribs. She felt him flinch, but he made no sound, only squeezing her tighter as she struggled.

Heavy soot filled the air carried by the afternoon breeze, clogging her throat and causing her eyes to water, even more so than Winn’s grip around her neck. Houses erupted in flames around them, the roof of the house behind them devoured by fire in mere seconds.

“Help me! Help! Help!” another voice cried. Although Winn still held her, they all turned to stare at the young girl who ran screaming from the burning house behind them. A mountain of blond curls streamed after her as she flew past them, her rosy red cheeks stained with blood and tears as she cried. She stumbled and fell, leapt to her feet, and continued running out into the meadow beyond the open palisade gates.

The stranger took off after her.

“Winn, please, don’t let him hurt her!” Maggie pleaded. His grip around her throat lessened and finally he dropped his hand as they watched the man pursue the young girl.

“Makedewa!” Winn shouted.

At the sight of the girl, Makedewa dropped Finola none to gently onto the ground, and took off in pursuit. He sprinted after the man who followed her, reaching him quickly. He launched himself at the man and brought him to the ground. Although more wiry than brawn, Makedewa was built like a wrestler with long lean muscles and surprising strength. By the time they reached him, the larger warrior was dead, his throat cut from ear to ear.

The blond-haired girl began to scream as Makedewa stood over her, her hysterical cries merely adding to the sudden onset of wailing from the town. She sat on her backside, her eyes frantic, her mouth agape.

“Yours?” Winn asked, eyeing his brother. Makedewa crouched next to the screaming girl. He put out one hand to touch her and she slapped him away, screaming louder as if it would have more impact with more volume, kicking her tiny feet about the sand as her cheeks flushed raw. She could not be more than fourteen or fifteen, and she was scared senseless by the looks of her.

Maggie noticed the look between the men. Winn arched one brow, and Makedewa nodded back so slightly she would have missed it had she not been looking.

She turned back toward the town as the men decided what to do with the girl.

Near the palisade gates, a young man laid, his neck in an unnatural angle. An ear of corn was shoved down his throat, the yellow silken end waving in the breeze, but his cause of death was more likely the garden hoe impaled in his chest. A boy lay beside him, a child of no more than five, his head cocked at an unnatural angle beneath his starched white collar.

A woman ran screaming down the middle of the street, quickly fallen by the blow of a well-aimed sickle. A warrior walked up behind her, snatched the sickle from the woman’s fallen body, and took a path into the next house.

“Come, we must go!” Winn said. Chetan gave a shrill whistle, and their ponies came forth from the wood line. Chetan mounted up with Finola, who looked to be waking up, and Makedewa tried to get the girl to her feet.

This time she bit him when he reached for her, and Maggie held her breath. Makedewa was no softhearted brave. Although she had never seen the younger brother with a woman, she suspected he would not handle her assault well.

“Let me,” Maggie said, leaving Winn’s side. She kneeled down beside the girl. Although the blond-haired hellion did not fight her, she looked like a fuse about to ignite. She sat there shaking with her curls sticking out around her face, sprawled on the ground with her apron around her knees and a look of sheer terror etched on her face.

“What’s your name?” she said softly. The girl stared blankly back at Maggie, then looked at Makedewa and Winn, then returned to Maggie.

“Rebecca,” the girl said very softly, so low that Maggie knew the others had not heard it. Maggie reached slowly and took her shaking hand. Filthy with blood and dirt, Maggie patted it, hoping to gain her trust so they could all live to see another day.

Fires roared behind them, the flames jumping from house to rooftop, swallowing anything in its path. The blacksmith shop ignited with a bang, the explosion sending them all to their knees with hands over their heads.

“Rebecca,” Maggie said, pulling the girl to her feet. “Ride with us if you want to live. No one will hurt you.”

“They killed my parents, and my baby brother,” she whispered.

“It was not these men. Trust me. They mean you no harm. You’ll ride with Makedewa, I promise we’ll be safe.”

She tilted her head to Makedewa, who stood watching the exchange with Winn a few paces away. Winn swung up on his pony and held out a hand for her, and she used his foot as an anchor to swing up behind her husband.

Makedewa held out his hand to Rebecca, and this time, after one quick look back at the burning town, she took it without biting or slapping him. The girl settled behind the warrior and they prodded their horses into a gallop.

The stank odor of burning flesh clung to them as they raced away from the scene, the cries of the dying following them for miles, even as they passed long out of range.

It would take more than distance to forget such a day, if ever they could. Maggie glanced back over her shoulder at the blazing town and shuddered. She clenched her arms tighter on Winn’s waist and hugged him.

The horse stopped from nearly a full gallop by burying his haunches in the dirt, his response immediate to Winn’s command. The warrior pulled Maggie into his arms and jumped clear of the beast in one motion, his stride purposeful yet laced with anger as he stalked to the cave. She knew better than to argue. Her skin tingled under his touch when he finally placed his hands on her face, cupping her jaw and clenching her hair with such desperation that she could feel the anguish and fear coarse through him. His skin was stained with the scent of smoke and when he kissed her she tasted the whisky he shared with the settlers before the slaughter. Had he obeyed his uncle? Had he participated in the massacre?

His blue eyes clouded as he pulled back, searching her own desperate gaze for a moment. Short, tender kisses followed along her cheeks, her neck, and back to her forehead, where he rested his head against hers. She could not bear to move, her shaking contained by the way he clutched her to his bared chest slick with sweat and blood. Neither one of them dared a word. Their silent truce remained intact when he released her, a fragile stalemate created between them.

Maggie let out a whispered objection as he broke the embrace, but obeyed when he pushed her down to the furs at their feet. She let him cover her with dry furs, sitting cross-legged next to the fire he started. She worried he would never speak or that he would leave, and she felt panicked until he sat down behind her on the furs. Her eyes closed as his arms surrounded her, drawing her back to nest in his lap. She writhed around in his lap to face him when his lips caressed her ear and he chuckled, but she did not miss the edge of sadness in the gesture.

“My stubborn little Fire Heart,” he said, his lips still buried in her hair. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” he asked.

Her words caught in her throat as she returned his stare. Sad, sincere, his eyes were like windows through the warrior, a glimpse of the tormented soul within. She hated to know she caused him such grief, and although there were many more players in this tragedy to cast blame on, the knowledge was of little comfort.

“I was angry at you for being so cold to me,” she whispered. “You let me think you were dead.”

“I sent my brothers to Benjamin with word that I lived, but it was too late. You married him,” he said quietly.

“I saw Thomas Martin shoot you. He said you were dead, he brought your Bloodstone to me as proof.” She touched his face with her fingertips. “Then I found out I was carrying our child. I – I didn’t know what to do.”

She shook her head when he tried to interrupt. “I tried to stop Thomas from firing his rifle that day, and he…he did not take it well.” She swallowed to steady her voice, omitting how Thomas had beaten her severely. “I had to get away from him – he was going to send me to England. Benjamin said he would help me. He said he promised you he would protect me. I thought – I thought you would want me to survive. That you would want our child to be safe,” she paused. “I thought you were dead. If you were alive, why didn’t you come for me? How could you leave me there? How could you let me mourn you?”

His shoulders dropped and his face creased as if the breath had been stolen from his chest, his arms tightening around her when he pressed his lips into her damp hair. He closed his eyes as he inhaled and kissed her ear very softly, then released his sigh in a low rush.

“Makedewa. He told me you carried a child and that you were happy with your husband. I would not steal you away from your happiness…even if it was not with me.”

“But—” she reeled, confused. “Oh…I see. You thought…you thought Benjamin was the father. You thought I wanted to be there?”

He did not answer, and his silence infuriated her.

“So why not just leave me to hang then, if that’s what you thought?”

“You took my pride when you married him, but still I loved you. I would not let you hang.”

“But you would send me back to my own time, then? With no explanation?”

He pressed his lips against her cheek and she felt his arms tense. “You once said you would give anything to return to your time. I had your Bloodstone. It was all I could give you. It was my only way to protect you.”

Maggie closed her eyes. So much had happened.

“Oh, Winn,” she whispered. “When they told me you were dead, nothing mattered to me anymore. I never loved him, Winn, it was never like that. I wanted to die with you, and damn you, I tried! But then there was the baby…and a reason to keep breathing, at least for one more day.”

She felt his wordless nod against her hair and his chest expanded as he let out a deep sigh.

“I know something of this pain.” His gentle hands closed tighter, and he clutched her back against his chest, his words forced out through a half-choke, half-groan. “I wanted to explain, to tell you so many things. Then I saw you standing there, a fire goddess, like you would strike me down before you let me touch you, I – I lost my head.”

She reached out to touch his face, but he caught her hand and pressed it to his chest against his heart, where she could feel the tortured thud as it beat against her palm.

“I was a fool. Yes, I stayed away, but I knew your ghost would never leave me. I knew I would see your face in my dreams, for all my days. I am so sorry, ntehem.”

Maggie found no words to answer, wanting to comfort him as much as she wished to bury her face in his bared chest and weep. She closed her palms on each side of his face, touching her mouth gently to his. His fingers traced a line down both of her arms, a shudder running through her at the touch of his skin against her own.

“Nouwmais,” he said softly.

“I love you, too,” she whispered back.

“I could not stop, you know,” he said quietly some time later, after their breathing began to slow and they lay with limbs entwined, threaded through furs and soft flesh. “When you married him, I still could not stop wanting you. Even though I knew you were lost to me. These eyes haunt my dreams,” he whispered. Her eyes closed as he pressed his soft lips against each lid, and then grazed across her lips. “I betray all that I am, all that I know. I walk alone now, ntehem, I cannot return to live among my people. Still none of it matters. I lay here with you, and tell you I would do it again, every day of my life.”

His hand closed around her face and he gazed down intently at her, his fingers firm but gentle, his face creased and his brows pinned over his slanted blazing eyes.

“Did you come to me with this power, from your future time? Why do I think nothing of betraying my people, if only to be here, with you, like this?”

“I have no power,” she said softly. She briefly recalled his uncle, the legendary leader who also believed her to be a witch, but the memory passed back into the recess of her mind where it belonged. He shook his head and placed his hand on her belly, using one calloused finger to trace a line from navel to her throat, then up under her chin, where it stopped at her swollen lips.

“No, ntehem, no power,” he whispered. “Only my lifeblood, a prisoner here,” he smiled, then placed his palm against the gentle swell of her belly. “I am your prisoner, Tentay teh. Do with me what you will.”

Maggie heard horses approach, the sounds of hooves scrambling up the mountainside unmistakable. She joined Winn outside to greet the riders, surprised to see it was Makedewa holding Rebecca in his arms. The girl slumped over, clearly unconscious after her harrowing ordeal.

“Chetan returned to the village?” Winn asked.

“Yes, he took the Pale Witch to mother, she will tend her. I brought this one here. I thought – I thought seeing more of our kind might frighten her now. Will you let Maggie see to her?” Makedewa answered.

She stepped up beside Winn.

“Of course I will. Bring her inside,” she replied.

Makedewa cradled the girl easily against his chest and brought her into the cave, where he set her down on the furs next to the fire. Winn said something in Paspahegh which elicited only a grunt from Makedewa, and the two men quickly left.

She stared after them for a moment. She imagined they expected her to know what to do. After all, wasn’t caring for the sick a woman’s duty? Looking down at the exhausted girl before her, all she could think to do was clean her up the best she could manage with limited supplies. It would go a long way towards her tired muscles and weary mind.

She untied the girl’s blood sodden apron and placed it in a pile, adding her scuffed leather boots and brown wool stockings as well. The girl did not stir. Maggie lifted her skirt to untie her starched petticoat, still not accustomed to English fashion, but thinking she could wrestle it off without waking the girl. She found the stays and pulled them loose, and then pulled the petticoat gently off.

She inhaled a quick breath and held it when she pulled the garment away. The lining was smeared with blood. As the breeze hit her skin, the girl opened her eyes and began to thrash, kicking and hissing like a cat held under a waterspout. Maggie did the best she could to deflect her blows, unwilling to hurt her further. Finally she wrapped her arms around her in a bear hug as Marcus had so often done to her when she had flown into a temper, rocking her and murmuring soothing words as she patted her back.

The girl howled against her chest, her pale little hand clenched under her chin as she sobbed.

Makedewa and Winn came to the cave opening at the screams. She held up a hand over the girl’s trembling back in a gesture to stop them, and they remained a few paces away.

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay now,” she soothed her.

“I could not stop him,” she cried softly into Maggie’s breast. Maggie held her as tight as the girl could tolerate, rocking back and forth together, mimicking the easy sway of a babe inside a cradle.

“It’s not your fault,” Maggie whispered.

“I wish he killed me. Why didn’t he just kill me?” she sobbed.

Maggie continued to rock her.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, at loss to give her any semblance of comfort.

Despite the closeness Maggie and Winn shared on returning to the cave, when dawn arrived and they went about the business of making camp, Maggie felt the slow strangle of distance growing between them. Makedewa and Chetan joined them after procuring more supplies and she was pleased to hear they would join them soon in their exile. Winn would never admit it, but she knew how much he missed his family and she was glad they would all settle together in one place to ride out the coming winter.

Maggie wondered how Rebecca would adapt. The girl followed Maggie everywhere and took a liking to Teyas, so it was a welcome relief that Teyas decided to join them. The girl was only fifteen, as Maggie suspected, and she looked at the men with tribulation most days but she was smart enough to understand they meant her no harm. They never spoke of returning her to the English, and Maggie had a feeling the girl would not go even if it were offered. Rebecca held a deep shame for what had happened to her.

“It’s better off my Ma and Pa lie dead. Better dead then to know the truth,” Rebecca said.

The cave served as their home and as a central gathering place, the large enclosed space adopting the usage the community long house would traditionally take in their new settlement. The men built two yehakins in a semi-circle outside the cave, and also a smaller house to keep their gathered food and supplies. Teyas and Ahi Kekeleksu joined them as well, and their private sanctuary suddenly was a bustling mini village. Maggie welcomed the companionship but at the same time she longed for privacy with her husband, who seemed to be slipping further away.

It was nothing she could point to that changed things. The first night the others arrived, he held her tenderly in his arms when they slept, yet he made no move to press his attention and she soon fell asleep in his embrace. However, when the next night followed the same routine, Maggie knew something was amiss, and on waking alone in the furs once again she decided to confront him.

Makedewa and Chetan worked on completing the supply house. Makedewa grunted in greeting as Chetan secured a flat bark shingle to the roof and tapped it into place with the blunt end of his iron axe, a gift he had gleaned from the English when they were all still on better terms.

“Have you seen Winn?” she asked.

“He checks the snares by the cliff. Take care if you follow him,” Makedewa answered, disapproval evident in his tone.

“Thank you, I will,” she smiled. She left them to their work. Stopping by the cave to grab her heavy wool cloak, she also tossed some crusty bread and some cheese into a small satchel before she set off up to the cliff in search of her husband. Although she knew the trail well, it still might take a bit of time to find him and she did not want to be trapped without any recourse if her stomach acted up. Most of her nausea had diminished in the weeks they spent in the mountain valley, but there were still waves of dizziness that seemed to get better with a bit of food in her belly.

She found him on the ridge by the cliff, standing at the edge. His ears were sharp and she was surprised he did not hear her advance as he looked out over the valley, his empty gaze searching over the tumble of green that graced the land as far as the eye could wander. His chin dipped down and he cocked his head to the side when he finally noticed her, but he did not turn to greet her.

Maggie slipped her arms around his waist and pressed a kiss to his bared shoulder. He was dressed simply in a breechcloth and buckskin leggings, his copper skin shimmering with a layer of fresh sweat dampening his skin. He placed one hand over hers and held her tightly as he continued to watch the valley.

“I miss you, husband,” she said softly. She felt his ribs move as he let out a sigh.

“I do not go away for long.”

“I’m not talking about just this morning. I miss my husband.”

He made a low growling sound and swung her around into his arms, and she sighed with pleasure as his lips came down upon hers. Needful and wanting, his mouth made promises, but she was left confused when he pulled back.

“You should go back to the cave. I will return soon,” he said. One of his hands caressed the small of her back as he held her, and she felt the fingers of his other hand twisting in her hair. He kissed the top of her head as he often did and made to part, but she circled her arms around his waist and would not yield.

“Please tell me what troubles you,” she asked. She wished it was only the uncertainty of the coming winter, or worry over storing enough food before the first snow, but when his almond shaped blue eyes fell dark and he gazed down at her in despair, she feared perhaps it was something she did not want to know after all.

“I…I will not worry you over my thoughts, ntehem,” he said softly.

“But I would hear them anyway. What keeps you from my bed, warrior? Am I too round now for you to love?” she tried to joke, infusing a bit of humor. The corner of his mouth turned up and he did smile, but it did not reach his eyes and it was rapidly replaced with a frown.

“Of course not. I know my babe grows inside you.” He broke away at the confession, and turned back to the cliff.

Maggie winced at his words and made no move to follow him. So that ghost was rearing its memory, shades of the time they spent apart, and she had no idea how to battle such things. They had not spoken of that time since they were reunited, and although she knew someday it would need to be said, she feared it was still too fresh of a wound to risk bending it.

“Do you doubt this child is yours?” she asked, the words so hoarse as to be nearly silent as uttered from her lips. His shoulders flinched and sagged, but he did not move otherwise.

“I know the babe is my blood.”

“Then what are you getting at, Winn?” she whispered. She felt the sting of tears and thrust the despair away, instead embracing the rising tide of anger as a means to clear the path. He was stubborn, she would give him that, but she was even more so to a greater fault, and she would not let his accusations go unanswered.

She put her hand on his arm but he shrugged it off, turning on her. His eyes flared like beacons in a storm, his cheeks flushed, his fisted hands at his sides. The veins in his neck and arms stood out in rails along his skin.

“Tell me why you went to him. Tell me why you wed him,” he said quietly. She swallowed hard before she could summon the strength to answer.

“I was afraid. I was alone and afraid. Is that what you want to hear?” she said. “I didn’t know what to do. You were gone, and I didn’t know what to do.”

“Did you love him?” he asked. His lips thinned with the force of holding back, and his hands reached for her once but pulled away. He thrust his hands up and squeezed his head, then ran his fingers through his thick hair. “I fear to ask it, but not knowing haunts me.”

“Winn –”

“I know you shared his bed. I must know – did you share his heart as well? I will hear it from you.”

“Then hear this, husband,” she said. “I have loved no other but you. Every moment we were apart, it was always you. Even when I thought you were dead, it was still you.”

He stepped back, putting space between them, and when she reached for him he gently pushed her hands away.

She dropped her hand and turned to go when a sob reached her throat, biting down hard on her lip to stifle it as she made for the trail. Through blurred eyes she took the path back down to the cave, but instead of returning to the others, she followed the tree line to the crevice where the spring sat beneath the falls.

She wanted to be angry with him, but she could not. Would she be any better, had he been with another woman? She cringed at the thought of her warrior in the arms of another, and with the intensity of disgust that surfaced within her she could hardly hold him accountable for the anger he now felt.

Shedding her dress, she stepped into the shallow pool and sank down onto the flat ledge, closing her eyes to the warmth and wishing it was his arms that surrounded her instead. Was it a matter of forgiveness between them now, some demon they needed to extinguish, or was this the slow tearing of the bonds that held their lifeblood together? Should she feel shame for doing what she thought was best when she believed Winn dead, or should she hold it up and demand it be forgotten, never to be spoke of again? She had no answer for mending the tear between them.

She felt the water ripple and saw the flash of his bared skin when he dipped beneath the water. His clothes lay in a pile next to hers, and two dead rabbits tied together lay staring with blank eyes at the mouth of the crevice. She closed her eyes when she felt his hands circle her waist and he surfaced in front of her. Like a glorious heathen God, he shook the water from his hair and droplets ran down his rippled chest, dipping into the scarred crease below his left shoulder. She wanted to brush it away, but she was afraid to touch him, fearful to breathe or make a sound lest he go back the way he came.

“Winn, I’m so sorry,” she whispered, pulling back slightly from his kiss. He cupped her face with two wide hands and gently kissed the tear than ran down her cheek.

“As am I, ntehem.”

“But can you ever forgive me?” she whispered.

“Maggie,” he said softly. “You once asked me if I would not do the same, if I was trapped, like you, far away from my home. Yes, I had anger at you! By the Gods, Maggie, I wanted to hurt you for marrying him!” He trembled as he spoke, his eyes skewed into shallow slits and his face contorted in a grimace, as if he pained with each syllable. “But I know why you did it, and when my head cleared, I could not keep anger at you,” he murmured.

“Oh, Winn,” she breathed. “I love you. It’s always been you.”

He pressed his lips to her hair and drew her close.

His hand slid up her back, and she could feel the sensation of something rough yet yielding against her skin. He took her hand in his and placed the object in her outstretched palm. Filled with water and scented with sweet oil, a fat sea sponge sat in her hand. She looked up at him, uncertain of his intention, and was pleased to see the beginning of a smile on his lips.

“Among my people, a story is told of the First Husband,” he said softly. He brought her hand to his chest, where he guided her to make circles across his skin with the sponge. “The man loved a beautiful maiden, and this maiden was as dear to him as the sun is to the moon. He married her, and they lived as one. So blinded by his love for the maiden, he could think of nothing else but her. One day he was called away to hunt, and he left the maiden alone.”

Maggie remained silent, but she followed his lead, and she continued to sponge him gently as he told the story. The sounds of the water lapping against their skin echoed in the cavern, as loud as his shallow breaths upon her skin. His hands settled on her waist and he pulled her closer as she gently scrubbed his shoulders and arms.

“The man never returned to the village and the maiden knew some evil had taken him from her, since she knew he would never leave her. Soon her family found her another husband, and she married again.” At this his voice dipped lower, and he took the sponge from her to gently caress along her skin. He dabbed her face and neck, and traced tiny circles over her ribs. “Many moons later the First Husband returned, as he was not dead at all, but only lost in the woods. He challenged the new husband for his wife, and when he won she was returned to him.”

His hand dropped lower to her belly where he resumed the gentle rhythm, cleansing the spot where their child grew deep inside her.

“The man took his wife to the river, and there he bathed her. He scrubbed her skin with the bark from a Cyprus tree, scrubbed until her skin lay pink. Then she did the same to him, and they lay together again as man and wife, the sadness of their time apart forgotten.”

She felt a tear escape down her cheek, and smiled as he brushed it away with the sponge.

“I am clean now,” he said softly. His bright eyes softened of their frantic luster, a calmness washing over him as he gazed down at her.

“As am I, my husband,” she whispered.

CHAPTER 39

“It is finished. The Council speaks, they say they give us blessing.”

Maggie and Teyas both looked up as Winn entered the cave and made his declaration, the joy in his words streaming from his grinning lips. She jumped to her feet and threw herself into his waiting arms.

“Oh, Winn, that is wonderful!” she cried. She had worried for days what it would mean to him by returning to the village to speak with the Council, but with his safe return she had hope that someday they may rejoin the Paspahegh. Although they would remain in their secluded valley until the child was born, the support of the Council meant the Paspahegh would not hunt them. The threat from Opechancanough remained, but it was the best they could hope for at this point.

He kissed her soundly, kicking out at Teyas with his toe when she giggled.

“They say Opechancanough sent you to the English, so he must not need your blood. They welcome you return to the village. It is the best we could hope for.”

“Well, I can’t fault their reasoning, but I wish it had nothing to do with your uncle,” Maggie grumbled. He squeezed her and groaned.

“Ah, woman! You know it has much to do with my uncle.”

“What about Finola?” she asked. Opechancanough had banished Finola as well, but as she had no husband to speak for her, Winn served as emissary to the Council. Maggie held her breath while waiting for his response.

“If she wishes, she may remain there with the Paspahegh. But the Council fear her, and I worry she may want to return to the English.”

“No! Why would she want that?” she asked, drawing back from his embrace to look up at his face.

Teyas interrupted. “She said she fears she will miss it when it happens if she is not with the English.”

“Miss what?”

“The return of Pale Feather.”

Winn stiffened at her words and his hands fell away from Maggie. Teyas shrugged her shoulders and went back to her work, weaving strips of cured deer hide together for a sleeping mat.

“What did the Witch say of my father?” Winn demanded, his words spoken careful but with clear authority. Teyas sighed.

“Finola sees a night when stars fall from the sky. She sees the English send men to look for the stars, and that is the night Pale Feather will return. She says she must stay with the English for it to pass.”

Maggie felt a stirring in her belly and slid her hand down over the swelling. Surely, it was too soon to feel movement, but she smiled anyway and waited breathlessly to see if it would come again. Winn noticed her shift and eyed her expectantly.

“It’s nothing,” she smiled. He grinned and nodded, looking a bit like a wounded puppy, but kissed her cheek quickly and shook his head.

“So another vision then. She can go to the English if that is her wish, I will not keep her from them,” Winn said. “But you, little one, I will keep you here in front of my two eyes, so I may never lose you again.” He squeezed her and lifted her off her feet, and a squeal escaped her lips as they laughed. Teyas rolled her eyes skyward, but she also smiled.

It was a blissful peace for the moment, and Maggie was happy to bask in the glorious contentment as long as it would have them.

Maggie walked back from the waterfall, a basket of damp clothes balanced on her hip. Her belly had grown somewhat large as the birth approached, as pregnant bellies often do, and she found it harder each day to make the trek down the steep path. She managed well with the constant exercise, pleasantly surprised to see how her body responded to the activity during her pregnancy. Yet the fatigue now made even the smallest chore seem much more complicated. At times she felt afraid of the upcoming birth, but Teyas and Chulensak Asuwak were like hovering hens and they kept her too occupied to dwell on her fears too often. She was glad Winn’s family had joined them at the waterfall and she hoped they would stay instead of returning to the village.

She smiled at the thought of their faces when she explained how babies were born in her time. A hospital room, male doctors, and spinal anesthesia made quite the impact on them, but once they heard all about it they assured her their ways were much better. Birthing a baby was a sacred event, and the women would take care of her as they cared for each other. Maggie was glad for their kinship, and thankful for their love.

As the cave came in sight, she looked up ahead and spotted Ahi Kekeleksu leading Blaze into the new corral. He smiled and waved, shooting his hand up so fast that the chestnut colt spooked and reared, but the spry boy dodged the animal and managed to get it through the gate.

Maggie was panting when she finally reached him, and she bent over a bit with her hands on her knees to catch her breath before she chastised him. The child knelt before her and peered up into her eyes. Rebecca came running to help him.

“Tentay teh? Is it your time?” he asked. His large brown eyes were round with excitement.

She could not recover her breath, and then a wave of pressure surged through her back down to her pelvis. She placed her hand on his shoulder, but he was not strong enough to hold her upright when her knees buckled, so he helped lower her to the ground.

“I need Winn,” she managed to groan as another contraction coursed through her. The pains were nearly on top of each other, with no relief in between. Was it normal for labor to start in such a way? In the movies they did things like count minutes between contractions, she thought with a grimace as another wave took her breath away.

“The warriors are hunting – I will get Teyas!” the boy shouted, taking off in a bare footed run up to the cave. She tried to get up, but the next contraction was too strong, and she uttered a scream as she sank down to her knees.

“Oh, Maggie!” Rebecca groaned, patting her back. Maggie glanced sideways at her. The girl looked terrified, and she could hardly blame her. She was close to panicked herself.

She gritted her teeth against the pressure and let out a long groan. She would get her ass up, her child would not be born in the dirt outside the cave! Thrusting both hands against her knees, she pushed up again to stand and felt a warm gush of fluid leave her body.

Relief washed over her when she felt two pairs of hands take her under each elbow and assist her to stand. Teyas grinned, and Chulensak Asuwak shook her head with a knowing chuckle.

They led her into the cave, Ahi Kekeleksu and Rebecca trailing behind them.

CHAPTER 40

Winn noticed the yard was empty when he approached their camp, which he thought was strange since Ahi Kekeleksu despised being cooped up inside on such a warm day. Winn usually left one of his brothers with the women while he hunted, but with the birth approaching he felt more need to hunt quickly and return so he had taken both brothers with him. They returned with two fair sized deer and a half dozen rabbits, a good amount of game for one day. Hunting was more plentiful near the camp, as the English had not invaded the sanctuary yet.

The boy streaked out of the cave as they approached, his eyes wild and his face flushed with excitement. Winn knew something had happened, and he felt his stomach curl down deep into a knot. He jumped off his horse and ran for the cave.

“The baby, the baby is here!” the boy shouted.

“Maggie? Is she well?” he asked as he passed the boy. The boy grinned.

“Oh yes! She sleeps now!”

Winn let out the air from his lungs and relaxed his tight gripped fists. Ahi Kekeleksu spoke true. He sank down beside his sleeping wife as she lay on the pallet, the relief running through him as he looked at her. She was propped up with several pillows, the odd fluffy things she insisted on making before the birth, and he could see why she had wanted the things now. Her crown was streaked with damp sweat that moistened her auburn hair into tiny curls around her face, and he could taste the salt of her work as he kissed her forehead.

The child lay snug in her arms. Eyes closed in sleep amongst a round chubby face with a swatch of dark hair, he marveled at the lightly bronzed skin and tiny rounded nose. When Maggie gently touched his face, he clasped her hand and pressed it hard to his lips, so that he could have another moment to look at the child and find the right words to show his wife his joy.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Maggie whispered. His eyes shifted to hers.

“She?”

“Yes…your daughter,” she smiled.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Kwetii.” The baby opened her eyes, blinking deep blue orbs several times until finally she stared up at him. Her bow-shaped mouth parted as he gazed at her, and then her face puckered into a hearty cry. His daughter. She was beautiful.

Maggie raised her eyebrows and he whispered, “It means Little One. I call her Little One,” he explained.

“Shh, shhh, here,” Maggie cooed, placing the infant to her breast. Winn slid beside her on the furs and wrapped his arms around them both as the baby fed.

“I am sorry I was not here,” he said softly. She turned and kissed him as the baby continued to peacefully nurse.

“You’re here now. Thanks for bringing more food, I think I’m hungry now,” she smiled. He groaned and clutched her against his chest.

“Thank you for…for her. For you. God, I love you, woman! And yes, I will feed you…but wait. I would watch you both for a bit longer.”

Maggie nodded. Winn settled back, his head resting on her shoulder as they watched their daughter.

CHAPTER 41

Maggie heard the riders at the same time as Winn, as they made no effort to conceal their approach. She had been nursing Kwetii while sitting on the grass watching the others, but at the sight of the three men jumping off their horses she let her deerskin mantle drop lightly over the head of the child. She had grown accustomed to nursing the babe in front of her family, but her modesty was too ingrained to do so in front of strangers.

Winn greeted the riders, and by his friendly demeanor, she could see the warriors were no threat to them. They had lived peacefully on the mountain for more than six months, and although they often discussed where they would settle more permanently, Maggie secretly hoped they could stay where they were forever. Winn, however, reminded her it was too close to the English for him to feel secure, and Opechancanough would always pose a threat to them. Although his uncle had not chosen to prevent Winn from leaving the tribe, Winn did not trust the man not to retaliate at some point, and he felt very strongly they should soon move south out of his reach.

Now as the familiar warriors spoke with her husband, she wondered what news they carried from the tribe. They were clearly Powhatan, wearing the distinct scalp lock hair. A fully shaved head except for one central piece that trailed in a long braid down their back, the most honored warriors favored it. By the way Winn spoke to them, she thought he must know them, and as she approached with the babe, he offered no warning so she felt more secure.

She felt their gaze as she stood next to Winn, the surprise evident in their eyes as she stood beside her husband. Winn spoke rapidly in Paspahegh to them, nodded toward her, and then did something that startled her. He unsheathed his knife and with one quick flick, he sliced a line across the skin of his forearm. When it surged with blood, he dipped his finger into it, and then ran it across the baby’s brow.

“Tell Opechancanough I will not give him my blood. I cannot help him,” Winn said.

One of the warriors shook his head, his eyes widening at the words Winn spoke, and he issued a frantic response Maggie could not decipher.

“What does your uncle want?” Maggie interrupted.

Winn answered the warrior, and turned to Maggie.

“He asks too much,” he said. “He wants me to join him at a feast with the English. The whites tire of the fighting, and they offer a peace treaty if Opechancanough will come eat with them.”

“But does this mean your uncle forgives you for leaving?” she asked, hoping it would be a way for Winn to return to his people. Winn shook his head.

“I know not except that if I deny him, he will consider it a great insult. He asks me to sit by his side at this meal.”

The thought of insulting the Weroance left a sour taste in her throat, especially considering the last encounter she had with the man. She did not fully trust the Weroance, but she could not let Winn pass over the chance to mend the strain between him and his uncle. They not only had themselves to think about, but their family as well.

“But if you insult him, he may come for us,” she said softly.

“I would go, but he asks for more than I can give. He wants the Red Woman there as well. I will not take you, and I cannot leave you here unprotected. There is no other choice.”

“I will go with you.”

Maggie said the words and knew he would refuse, but she had to convince him it was the only way. If there was a chance to make peace with the Weroance, they would all sleep better for it, and perhaps they would not have to live always waiting for an enemy to strike.

“Please, Winn. If it will calm your uncle’s hatred, I will go with you. It will make life much safer for us all,” she pleaded. She tried to keep calm as he looked hard at her, and then the child. He glanced back at the cave, where Ahi Kekeleksu stood watching with Teyas. Finally, he issued a quick response to the visitors, and although they nodded in respect as they left, she could see their faces streaked with anger.

She followed Winn back to the cave, wondering what the refusal would cost them.

CHAPTER 42

Kwetii squealed as Maggie placed her on the soft swaddling blanket, tiny feet kicking at the empty air as her round red faced puckered to make her happy noise. Maggie reached down to the child and tickled her tummy as she patted her dry. She was eager to dress her before she sat up in the dirt, which was her most favorite thing to do. Winn thought her strange for covering the child, but Maggie held fast to her ingrained notions of propriety and insisted on dressing the child instead of allowing her to roll around naked.

“Ah, more silly clothes my daughter will ruin?”

Maggie rolled her eyes at Winn as he approached. They watched Kwetii scramble onto her belly and sit up on the blanket. Her round blue eyes searched for something to hold her attention, looking up at the ancient willow tree that shaded their serene resting place. She spotted Winn standing behind Maggie and let out a screech with her two chubby arms upraised toward her father. When he scooped her up, Maggie noticed the rifle slung over his shoulder.

“Hunting?” she asked.

He nodded. “Yes, we will return before dark. How goes the packing?”

“Most of it is ready. We can leave on your word,” she replied, scrunching her shoulder to her ear as he kissed her neck. His touch sent shivers down her back but she smiled. He held Kwetii at his hip with one arm and wrapped his other around her waist, lifting her up and spinning them both around as they screeched with laughter.

“Stop, stop, enough!” she laughed. Kwetii emitted a brisk hiccup through her wide toothless grin. The child clutched one long piece of hair in her hand, but Winn did not seem to mind.

Her chest heaved with the effort of catching her breath and trying not to laugh, and as she looked down at his chest where her hand rested, she could see Winn was breathing heavy as well. Warmed from the mid-day sun, his skin felt hot beneath her fingers, and she could feel the stagger of his heart beat under his breast.

“You have to leave?” she asked breathlessly.

She lifted her chin and placed a fleeting kiss on his neck, beneath his chin where she knew he was sensitive, and she smiled when he groaned and his fingers tightened on her waist. With all the preparations of leaving, they had whittled the yehakins down and all slept now in the cave, and under the watchful eye of five other people and one cranky baby, they had done little more than sleep at night.

“Ntehem,” he said, his forehead pressed to hers. “I have to leave now, but I will seek your company later.”

The baby let out a wail, piercing the peaceful glow between them, and they reluctantly separated. Winn placed the wailing child into her arms and Maggie did her best to soothe her, letting out a sigh when the baby sought to nurse.

Winn picked up the rifle and slung it over his shoulder by the carrying strap, then kissed her flushed cheek. His mouth twisted up into a grin, his blue eyes squinted half-closed as he looked down on the nursing babe.

“If only I could spend my day like that,” he murmured.

“Like a baby?” she asked. He nodded.

“Safe in your arms? Yes, that would be a good life,” he grinned.

Maggie rolled her eyes and pursed her lips together, but was unable to stifle a laugh when he enclosed them both in a fierce hug. His lips sent a shiver through her when he kissed her ear and whispered sweet Paspahegh endearments, his breath thick and warm on her neck.

“Hurry back,” she said.

“You will see me at nightfall. Be good, ntehem.”

She watched him walk to the path at the edge of the woods, and when she could no longer see the outline of his bronzed shoulders, she took the baby back to the cave.

She rolled the letter tight and bound it with a thin piece of rawhide. Winn’s pewter flask, a gift from Benjamin, sat waiting to receive the missive. It would have to do. She could think of no other way to let Marcus know she lived. Although she would be long dead before such word reached him, he would know she lived a happy life in the past.

On the outside of the rolled parchment, written with a dove quill dipped in some ink Chetan brought back from town, she left directions. It was to be given to Marcus Neilson on Saturday, October sixth, two thousand twelve, the day after the Bloodstone took her. She knew it was possible the letter would never reach him, but she had to try. It was the only way she could put the ghosts of her future to rest.

May 1623

Dear Marcus,

I can only pray that this letter somehow reaches you, and that you can forgive me for not returning home. Believe me, I tried to return, many times, but the longer I stayed, the more I came to see my life was meant to be lived in the past.

I’m not crazy. I do not write this under duress. Nothing bad happened to me when I disappeared. I think I heard you calling me as I left that day in the barn, so you probably saw me disappear. Please know there was nothing you could have done to prevent it. Some things are just meant to be, and I truly believe my leaving was one of them.

It was a strange black stone that did it, a shiny warm stone with a streak of red running through the center like a bloody vein. It is called a Bloodstone, and it is very powerful. My husband buried them many years ago, a small pile of them inside an old trunk, right where our barn was built. They must have been dug up and just thrown into the foundation when they built the place. If you find any more of them in the barn, please bury them deep in the earth so no one can ever find them. Although the Bloodstone brought me here, I cannot say for sure how the magic works, so I view them with more fear than curiosity.

Please know I am safe and happy here with my husband, Winkeohkwet. We have a beautiful daughter, and I am sure the future will be filled with happiness.

I must tell you something, and though I hesitate to cause you grief, I know you would want to hear it. Your son, Benjamin, was here in the past. My friend Finola tells me he traveled here as a young boy, and then lived among the English settlers at Martin’s Hundred, outside of Jamestown. We helped him use the Bloodstone to return to your time. I hope that Benjamin reached you and that he is safe. It would comfort me to know you will see him again, that your son is returned to you. He will have much to tell you about this time, but I will leave that to him, as it is his story to tell.

May your future be happy. I love you very much, and think of you often. Please take care, and rest easy, knowing I am happy as well.

Love always,

Maggie-mae

The Bloodstones sat piled inside the Viking chest, a square metal lined thing that Winn buried them in. Someday, somehow, those stones ended up in the foundation of her barn, so Maggie hoped that by leaving the flask with the stones, the letter might find its way to Marcus.

She placed the flask inside and closed the trunk. Kwetii let out a squeal from where she lay on her belly watching as Maggie shoved dirt back over the chest.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” she cooed. “Everything is okay now.”

Kwetii was crying, her sobs echoing against the walls of the cavern.

Maggie reached out to the babe, but found an empty space beside her where the babe should be.

The cries became weaker, and Maggie screamed for Winn.

“Winn?” she whispered, sitting up groggily on her pallet, the furs tumbling down in a pile around her. The events of the nightmare came back in one disjointed flash, and she reached for her daughter amidst her panic. “Oh, sweetheart!” she sighed. She brushed back a tear from her eye and placed the sleeping baby against her chest.

She looked up at the sky as she left the cave. It was just past dusk, the sky slathered with streaks of purple and orange as the sun dipped low over the horizon. She must have dozed off after feeding the baby, as they often did, which was good since that meant Winn would be back soon. Maggie did not like to be alone at the settlement, but with the others tied up with preparing to leave, she found herself there with just the baby for company quite often.

Maggie placed the baby on the ground, still swaddled in a soft doeskin blanket, and walked a few paces away into the underbrush to relieve her bladder. She hastily patted dry and rose to her feet.

They did not make a sound. Suddenly, standing over Kwetii were two familiar warriors. Maggie recognized the scalplock hair immediately, and as bile rose up from the pit of her stomach, she knew they were the men sent by Opechancanough.

“Kwishali!” she said forcefully, tilting her head up to address them in the few words of their language she knew. She hoped if she told them they frightened her, they would back away from the baby, but her hopes dimmed when she saw they did not budge. Their faces displayed nothing, two granite slabs staring at her and the baby as if they had stumbled onto something that perplexed them. One man glanced at the other and muttered a string of curt words she did not understand, and the other nodded and made a quick retort. When one man bent to pick up the child, she darted toward him and grabbed for her daughter.

“No! Leave her!” she screamed, punching wildly at the warrior who caught her by the upper arm. Her heart plummeted when the other man held her daughter out, as if she were a hot potato, blistering his hands.

“Here. Take the child!” the man said in stilted English.

“My husband is not here!” she said. Kwetii began to cry softly, and Maggie raised her to her shoulder, trying to comfort her while she figured out what the warriors wanted.

The first man scowled. He pointed to Maggie, then to the woods. She clutched the baby and shook her head, her eyes darting past the men to see if anyone else had returned to the cave. It was achingly quiet, leaving her to deal with the unwelcomed visitors herself.

“You go!” the native ordered again, pointing more forcefully this time toward the woods.

“No! I’m not going anywhere!” she hissed.

At her vocal protest, the men looked briefly at each other, and then the second man unsheathed the knife at his side. Kwetii squealed as Maggie stepped backward and stumbled, caught by the warrior at her side. She had no idea what intent they held toward her, and with the horror of realization rising she knew she could not fight with them without causing harm to her daughter.

She passed one more fleeting glance toward the cave in hopes anyone had returned, and then mutely went along with the two Powhatan warriors.

CHAPTER 43

Winn dropped the small deer carcass near the fire and looked around the yard. He heard voices down by the waterfall, and recognized the gleeful laugh of Ahi Kekeleksu, probably getting one last bath from Teyas before they set out on their journey to find a new home. He wondered if Maggie and the babe were down there as well, and he smiled when he thought of sneaking up on them as a surprise.

He slid the rifle off his shoulder and meant to put it inside the cave, but when he walked toward the crevice, his gait slowed. Standing upright, stiff in the ground, was the spear of a warrior, a red tipped feather attached to it blowing gently with the breeze.

“Maggie,” he called, to no response. “Tentay Teh!” His skin felt cold and he felt a pressure around his chest, squeezing slowly until he shouted again. “Maggie!”

Teyas and Ahi Kekeleksu came running at his frantic call, but neither Maggie nor the babe were with them. He pulled the spear from the ground and swore, swinging around to challenge the empty woods for want of any other to vent his rage on, his arms spread apart like an eagle ready to take flight.

“I will come for them!” he screamed.

CHAPTER 44

Maggie sat stiffly beside the other women on the furs that flanked the Weroance. Opechancanough perched on the highest dais, surrounded on each side by two of his wives. One was his favorite wife, and the other his newest, youngest wife. Both were quite beautiful, decked out in all the finery they possessed, their skin stained with bright red ochre and decorated with layers of copper and silver bangles. The Weroance was most impressive of all, showing off his riches by wearing every piece of jewelry he could manage to fit onto his sinewy weathered body.

He was a tall man, and when seated his new wife stood barely taller than the top of his head as she stood beside him. Maggie only noticed when the woman approached him to sit down, because women did not presume to speak or stand in the presence of the Weroance without invitation. Opechancanough ruled without resistance, and although Maggie thought of him as a vindictive, bitter warrior, his people clearly showed intense love for him by the way they worshipped his very presence.

Maggie rocked Kwetii, who thankfully slept peacefully through the pounding of drums and joyous cries throughout the long house. She dared another glance at the Weroance, who silently watched the celebration and occasionally nodded his approval. She noticed his eyelids drooped a bit, as if sleepy, and that he seemed more fatigued as the night wore on. She had no idea what they were celebrating, her understanding of the Powhatan language not much more than conversational. It was certainly not sufficient enough to risk an attempt at speaking with her captives.

She watched the proceedings from her spot of semi-importance among the Weroance’s less favorite wives, and considered herself lucky for the moment that they had treated her quite well. As the night wore on, she wondered what the Weroance planned for her, and when she saw Winn enter the long house she realized the purpose of her presence.

She was bait.

He displaced the light around him when he passed through the doorway, his wide shoulders braced, his arms tensed tight to the ends of his clenched fingers. His chest marked with black paint, his face streaked and shadowed so that his teeth appeared to glow with malevolence, he carried a long decorated spear as he approached the high dais. His bright blue eyes gleamed as he stared down the Weroance, and Maggie felt her composure slip away when she realized he was going to confront his uncle.

The drumbeats stopped and the Long House fell silent. Winn raised the spear over his head with both hands and then thrust it down into the ground, where it stood shuddering before the Weroance. Maggie dared not let out a breath as she watched her husband slowly kneel down before his uncle.

Winn pounded one fisted hand to his chest and looked up at Opechancanough. He kept his breathing shallow, barely expanding his chest, and she could see his fingers clench and unclench as he waited to be acknowledged by his uncle.

“I see you, nephew, and I will hear you now,” the Weroance called out. Whispers commenced throughout the crowd, and from the faces of the people around her Maggie could not tell if they were voices of admiration or disgust.

Winn remained on bent knee, but stared defiantly at the Weroance, one hand braced on the impaled spear and his knuckles standing out pale against the dark wood.

“I come for my wife,” he said, slow but loud, as if he desired everyone in the Long House to hear it. Maggie was sure they all did, as the eyes of every native were fixed on the impetuous warrior as he spoke.

Opechancanough narrowed his brows, and his eyes focused on Winn.

“What will you give me for her?” he asked. “She is quite valuable to me.”

Winn must have anticipated the answer, since he shot his response back in quick succession.

“I will stand by your side against the English during this treaty.”

The Weroance pursed his lips, and then his creased face broke into a wide smile. Maggie wondered how he managed to eat with nary a tooth in his blasted stubborn head.

“Then join me here, nephew, and I will give you the Red Woman,” Opechancanough pronounced, spreading his arms wide in a show of pleasure at the deal. The long house erupted into a chasm of relieved cries, and the rhythmic thud of the drums started anew. Winn rose up off his knee, his hand still gripping the spear.

“I have one more request.”

Maggie felt the blood leave her cheeks, and the drums stopped again. Opechancanough rose from his sitting position and approached Winn. Maggie swallowed hard at the sight of the ceremonial mallet he held in his hand, knowing how easily the bastard could flip the switch of his temper and turn into an irrational sod.

“Tell me your request.”

Winn glanced beyond his uncle to where the warriors stood flanking the Weroance.

“I ask for the right to challenge the warrior who stole my woman. I will take his life, and then I will stand at your side for this English treaty.”

“No!” Maggie moaned, pressing her daughter to her face, the doeskin blanket muffling both her cries and that of the startled baby. Why did he have to make a challenge? Couldn’t he see that both Maggie and Kwetii were perfectly fine, that the entire thing had just been to extract his compliance? Even Maggie knew if Opechancanough wanted her dead, she would have been exterminated long before now. It was clear the entire kidnapping served only as a means to bring Winn back in line.

“You may have your challenge.” The Weroance flicked his hand at his wives, and they obediently rose to follow him. “We will gather by the Great Fire, and see your fight.”

A long line of warriors followed behind the wives, and then the less favored wives began to file out, one of them holding onto her arm to keep her inside the pack as they walked past Winn. The remainder of the Indians in the Long House filed out in an unruly crowd, shouts and taunts bouncing through them. Some glared at Winn and some turned their backs, but most smiled and acknowledged him with a respectful nod. Maggie looked helplessly at him and longed to go to him, though she knew she could not.

His eyes met hers as she passed. She saw a flicker in his gaze, and no other sign of acknowledgement, but she was certain he saw in her heart what words she could not let loose.

The entire village gathered at the Great Fire, even the children. Faces turned toward the warriors in the circle, eyes alight with anticipation. Hands drew Maggie back inside the crowd, the wives embracing her within their ranks to watch the spectacle.

“What will they do?” Maggie asked.

“Quiet!” came a hiss from the woman beside her.

Kwetii dozed at her shoulder, the baby thankfully exhausted from the excitement, snoring while making tiny mewling sounds against her. Maggie rocked her and patted her bottom, more to give herself a task than to comfort the child. The babe slept soundly when she needed to, no matter what was going on around her, safe in her arms and oblivious to the risk her father was about to embark on.

Murmurs from the crowd abruptly stopped.

Winn pushed through a barrage of hands, reaching the clearing in the middle of the circular throng of people. He had no weapon save his capable hands, which turned white across the knuckles as he clenched them at his sides. Stripped of his clothes, he stood waiting for his opponent, wearing only a simple undecorated breechcloth. His wide chest was streaked with black paint, three lines slashed on each side of his chest, like wings stretching out from his ribs. The bottom of his face was covered with paint from ears through his jaw, the black mask heightening the whiteness in his teeth when he flashed a snarl at his opponent.

Kwetii squirmed with a sleepy squeal. Maggie looked down at her own clenched arms and immediately lightened her grasp, patting the baby to apologize. She had not realized she was gripping her harder until the baby stirred.

The village priest entered the clearing. Clad in ceremonial garb, a white fur cloak across his hunched shoulders, the man stood between the two warriors. A horned helmet enclosed his head, giving him enough height to near that of Winn, yet the diminutive man still looked fragile to her rather than fierce. He raised a feather-decorated spear above his head as if in salute, and all fell silent once again.

“Kweshkwesh and Winkeohkwet!” he screamed. “Finish this!”

Crouched low, hands outstretched, Kweshkwesh darted at Winn’s knees the moment the priest left the circle. The crowd erupted into bellows and howls, and multiple drums thudded in unison around the men. Louder, stronger, the drums set the rhythm, swallowing the cries and screams, dulling the sounds until all she could hear was a distant echo as she watched her husband fight.

Arms locked on each other, the men were head to shoulder, their feet scraping the ground to find purchase as each struggled to get the upper hand. Kweshkwesh lunged with his knife, slicing across Winn’s chest, and Maggie cried out at the surge of blood on his skin.

“No!” she shouted, her plea muted into nothingness among the voices of the villagers. She saw Opechancanough with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the fight as he stood next to the priest. How could he stand there and watch his own nephew fight to the death? What a bastard he was!

Winn paid no mind to the wound as he showed his own knife, slashing at Kweshkwesh in retaliation. He made contact and lunged forward, knocking Kweshkwesh to the ground, his chest heaving and dripping blood as he straddled the warrior. Winn held the knife to his throat, and as he paused in finishing the act, suddenly the noise among the people diminished and heads turned to Opechancanough.

Winn looked toward the Weroance, and then down at the man he held against the ground.

“I will not kill this man!” Winn shouted. “This man only followed orders, and I will not take his life for it.”

There was a sharp intake of gasps among the crowd, but Opechancanough did not waver.

Winn stood up, his knife still clutched in his fist, his blue eyes fastened on the Weroance. Kweshkwesh slowly rose from the ground, his head hanging and his face shielded, and as two women came forward to help him, he shrugged off their hands and stalked away from the circle.

“Let it be known to all. No man will take what is mine!” he bellowed.

Winn impaled his knife in the dirt at the feet of Opechancanough and stared at the man, their gazes locked for what seemed like hours, as the villagers waited for the outcome. The Weroance betrayed no surprise at the challenge, instead merely meeting Winn’s angry stare with a pensive one of his own.

Kwetii whimpered beneath her swaddling blanket.

The Weroance straightened his back and stepped one pace toward Winn.

“We hear you, warrior!” he shouted. Before he could finish the words, shouts and whoops filled the air, and the drum began to beat out a frantic celebratory rhythm. Men and women broke off from the circle and began to dance, and the children scattered like rabbits through the mesh of people.

As villagers vanished in all directions, Maggie pushed through the crowd to get to Winn. He turned, and she could see his eyes scan the crowd for her, finally meeting her own as relief flooded his face. Damn the Indians and all their tribal rules, she was going to her husband and no one would stop her this time. She threw herself into his arms.

“Winn!”

“Ntehem,” he said. He held her tight, his breath warm upon her hair.

“You could have been killed!”

“You think so little of my skill, woman?”

“You didn’t have to fight him!”

“Yes,” he said. “I did.”

She bent her head to his chest, the babe sheltered between them, and his arms tightened around them.

“The English come here tomorrow to make peace. I will stand with my uncle, and then we will leave.”

“Your brothers?”

“They wait for us to return.”

They passed over the celebration and instead retired to a nearby yehakin, escorted by several of the less favored wives and left with a multitude of supplies. Furs heaped on a sleeping mat, and a basket lined with down for the baby, they had all the comforts they needed for what Maggie hoped would be a very short stay. The women accompanied them as they readied the yehakin, bringing them bowls of food and stone jugs of drink, which they placed near the fire. One took the baby from Maggie and placed her in the makeshift cradle.

Maggie did not understand their words, which seemed different from the Paspahegh she was accustomed to, yet Winn had no such impediment and spoke softly to the women. One older woman in particular talked to him at length, and from the intimacy of their exchange Maggie was sure the woman was known to him. She was comely, with one long braid down her back, her oval face creased with tiny lines at the edges of her round brown eyes but betraying no other sign of her age. She placed a hand on Winn’s shoulder and Maggie watched it linger before she gave him a half-bow and summoned the other women.

As she left, she gave Maggie a shy smile, and then one more nod to Winn before she was gone.

“What was that about?”

“What?”

“That woman! Who is she?”

Maggie had never seen her husband blush and she was not reassured by the sight. His neck flushed, the color creeping up his jaw and cheeks, until he met her gaze with a hooded stare.

“Sesapatae, wife to my uncle. I lived with her family when I stayed here.”

“Oh. It just seemed like you – like she was someone special.”

“She was the first woman I shared furs with.”

Maggie sat down hard on the fur pallet.

“Oh. Oh, okay,” she said. She had no idea what the proper response to such a revelation should be, so she clamped her mouth shut and pulled a fur over her shoulders. Winn said nothing as he sank into the furs beside her, nor as he wrapped his arms around her.

She should not be surprised to hear his explanation, since she was well aware she was not the first woman he laid hands on, but she was perplexed that the woman was his uncle’s wife. She thought she would drop the subject, as Winn clearly had once he crawled beneath the furs, but when he still said nothing her curiosity won out.

“So how on earth did that happen?” she asked.

He moved above onto one elbow and squinted down at her.

“Like this,” he murmured. He untied the laces on the front of her dress, and his other hand slid down over her thigh. His mouth dipped down onto her neck, sending shivers over her skin as he nuzzled her playfully.

“But –”

“No more talk,” he whispered as he continued and scattered the questions she meant to ask.

“Stop that and answer me!”

He shook his head.

“My wife and child were stolen from me today. I fought the man who stole her, and I threatened my Weroance in front of the entire village,” he said, his mouth pressed against her ear. “And I am tired of talking!”

Later, when he lay with his head nestled against her shoulder, she felt the breath leave him and his tense muscles finally softened. He played with a lock of her hair, absently twisting it into a ringlet, his palm resting on her breast.

“It is the way of our people,” he said quietly. “I lived here when I became a man. It is custom for the uncle’s wife to lead the nephew into manhood. There is no more to it than that.”

“All right then,” she replied, ready to dismiss the topic until another thought took root. “But you wouldn’t expect me – I mean, what about Ahi Kekeleksu?” she stammered.

“It will be the wife to the mother’s brother. Not you.”

“Oh.” She had more questions, but held her tongue.

She heard him laugh, and she reached out to smack his chest in response. He caught her hand and pressed it to his chest.

“You are too busy teaching me, ntehem. I will not share you with any other.”

The conversation was finished, and she was glad for it.

CHAPTER 45

Maggie watched the Englishman give his theatrical speech as she sat next to Winn.

Captain Tucker was an enigmatic speaker, his thick baritone sharp and clear as he bellowed out his pledge to the Powhatans. Maggie expected a more imposing figure that would correlate more with the tales told of the man, but instead of an invincible solider, she only saw an average height man wearing a partial suit of overly decorated armor. His girth had long outgrown the outfit, and when he stood up straight to address the crowd, a crack of his belly showed beneath the armor. Maggie smirked each time he raised his arm.

“Will this take very long, you think?” she asked Winn. He sat cross-legged next to Opechancanough, but he had been silent through most of the demonstration other than to nod in agreement with the Weroance.

“I know not,” he replied.

The two opposing sides met on the banks of the Potomac, a neutral place where each felt on equal footing. Although he seemed like a psychotic beast at times, Maggie had to admit that Opechancanough was a skilled tactical leader. He had taken years planning the 1622 massacre, cultivating trust with the English so that his warriors could enter their homes without suspicion, until he took his vengeance out on them in one fatal day. Every Powhatan man, woman, and child had known the plan for years, yet he managed to keep their blind loyalty long enough to carry through with the attack.

Now the Great Weroance sat beside her husband, dressed in his finest attire, watching the Englishman pledge a truce to the Powhatan people. She could feel the tension roll off them in waves, from the sly glances they shared and the grunts of disproval from the Weroance as the Englishman spoke.

Maggie looked over Winn’s shoulder to where Kwetii lay in the arms of a Powhatan woman. It made her nervous to see her daughter out of her immediate reach, but Opechancanough had insisted one of his wives hold the child. She suspected it was just another ploy to keep both her and Winn in line throughout the ceremony, and a successful one at that.

“We share this meal as we meet as friends. All who take of this food today make this promise!” Opechancanough called out, raising his hands in the air. The Powhatans hooted and hollered, and the sounds of joyful noise filled the air. The Englishmen, few as they were, and none that she recognized, joined in by clapping and nodding in agreement. She fleetingly wondered why no English women were present, but then she recalled the subservient role they played in Jamestown society and realized they would not be included in such activities.

“Business has no place fer women,” Charles said. Benjamin waved the man off.

“Then you know not my wife, Charles. She is quite clever.” Benjamin replied.

Maggie shuddered at the unwelcome memory. Its shadow persisted, however, nipping at her ankles like hungry fleas wanting her blood, begging for acknowledgement. Was Benjamin safely returned to his own time? She knew she might never know the answer, and it was best left in the past. She glanced sideways at Winn.

He watched the English as he ate, taking the offered bowl of food from the Taster. Winn only gave her bits from his bowl, and stopped her hand when she reached for his untouched mug of rum.

“Wait.”

He handed the mug to the thin man seated behind them, who took a gulp. Winn watched the Taster for a few moments, shrugged, and then handed it to Maggie. She noticed the Weroance did the same.

Doctor Potts began passing around jugs of ale, which the Indians gladly filled their mugs with. He was another little man, yet dressed in the fine clothes of an aristocrat with a starched stand up collar and shiny new shoes with his brown hair tied neatly with a blue ribbon at his nape. His eyes followed the jugs as he watched the Indians pour out their share.

“’Tis the best we have, for our loyal friends!” Potts shouted, his arm outstretched, pointing to the clay jugs.

The Taster was given an overflowing mug, which he topped off with a gulp before handing it to the Weroance. Opechancanough grinned and raised it in salute.

Maggie looked around the gathering at the Indians seated in a circle, her mug sitting still full in front of her. Men, women, and children were present, nearly three hundred total, a token of trust to show the English they were sincere in desire for a treaty. A young brave teetered across the fire, and the women around him snickered and laughed.

Then another young brave fell to his knees.

Maggie turned to Winn, who had also seen the men fall, and then she saw Opechancanough lifting his mug to his lips. She lurched over Winn and knocked the mug from the hand of the Weroance in one quick motion, falling into Winn’s arms as a flurry of activity erupted around them.

“Red Woman!” the Weroance shouted. Maggie felt hands trying to pry her from Winn, but her husband held fast and shielded her from her would-be captors.

“I – I think it’s poisoned!” she told Winn. Both Winn and Opechancanough stared at her and then turned their attention to the Taster, who hiccupped and promptly fell to the ground in a heap of twitching limbs. Thick foaming bubbles of saliva began to drain from his opened mouth into the dirt.

“Liars! We will kill you all for this!” Opechancanough shouted.

Bedlam exploded around them. Warriors pulled the Weroance to his feet and shuttled him to the dugout boats waiting at the river. He barked out commands and the Indians began to mill toward the canoes, some stumbling and falling into the mud amidst screaming and crying. Maggie frantically searched for Kwetii and nearly keeled over with relief when Winn handed her the babe.

Shots rang out, and Maggie saw the Weroance stumble before he was pulled into a canoe. As the crowd surged toward the shoreline, many men fell, never to rise, all foaming at the mouth as the Taster had done. Women screamed and cried as they ran, dragging children behind them.

The English fired into the crowd, taking down more than the poison could finish off, pecking off the Indians blow by blow. She let Winn push her into a canoe, then reached up for his hand to guide him in, panicked when he kissed her roughly then thrust her away. As the bellow of gunfire roared around them, he pushed the canoe into the current instead of getting in.

“No! Winn! No, no!” she screamed.

“Go! Be safe with my daughter!” he shouted.

She clutched the side of the canoe, tears clouding her vision. He stood still for what seemed like ages, his tall warrior’s body primed to fight, his chest rising only slightly with each breath, looking like some ancient pagan devil as he watched them leave. Smoke from the fires rose behind him, the flames cracking and hissing to smother the screams. He glanced up at the sky, and then she lost sight of him as he turned back to the chaos to join the other warriors.

As she took a deep breath to steady herself, the thick smoke stung her throat and her lungs rejected the influx, leading to a spasm of coughing that served to agitate Kwetii more. The babe lay nestled against her breast inside a soft doeskin sling, but even the infant knew how precarious their lives were at that moment and she voiced her dismay loudly. Sitting wedged next to two sobbing women in the canoe, Maggie stared at the riverbank, hoping for something, anything to indicate the men would return.

Her arms ached as she paddled, the muscles in her shoulders screaming in protest at the unaccustomed labor. She closed her eyes to the pain and continued to push the oar through the murky water, grimacing when it caught on a bushel of Tuckahoe roots and she had to yank it free. Kwetii continued to wail.

“Here, I will row,” the woman beside her said. “Feed the babe.” Crusted with mud down her back, her one arm bloodied but intact, the woman took the paddle from Maggie and resumed the chore. Maggie glanced down at her daughter, somewhat stunned at her own inability to recognize the child’s cry for milk. Her body, however, was much more attuned, and she felt a rush of milk let down as the babe latched onto her swollen nipple.

“The men will follow us. Your warrior will return.”

Maggie looked up at the soft spoken voice. It was Sesapatae, and it was she who had taken the paddle from her hands. Maggie could only nod in return, not trusting her voice for fear of wavering. If she spoke her fears aloud, would it make her unworthy? Should she hold her own hopelessness inside the empty chamber where her beating heart should rest? She felt beaten and bruised, unable to raise the spirit within to battle the hopelessness, the sight of Winn walking back toward the battle etched into her mind. She could not strike it away, neither by closing her eyes nor by screaming, the hated image burning bright and clenching off all glimmers of hope.

She felt unworthy of his love, unworthy of his trust, when it would take but a gentle push to send her over the edge of madness. She could easily run screaming from the destruction, and if not for the tugging of the tiny babe at her breast, she would have done so.

The dugout canoe bumped bottom and slid onto loose sand, and they all helped pull it up onto the bank. There were three other canoes with the occupants doing the same, their backs illuminated in the moonlight as they worked wordlessly across the shimmering sand. Up ahead, she saw four men carry Opechancanough from the lead canoe and take him immediately to the Long House.

She felt a thin hand slip around her own. Sesapatae led her away from the riverbank.

“Come with me, Red Woman.”

Maggie looked back toward the river. The water was calm, lapping the beach with a gentle slapping sound as it gleamed in the light of the full moon. They had left to meet the English with more than two dozen canoes. Only four returned.

She let Sesapatae guide her up the riverbank to the village. Only a few remained behind, and those who were able rushed down to help the wounded and sick. A woman walking ahead, supported by two other women, vomited up a blood-tinged froth. Several children, crying but otherwise unharmed, ran ahead, luckily among those too young to share the gift of the English rum. They were fortunate, because it seemed those smaller and weaker fell first, like the young braves who first teetered and collapsed, and the wiry young Taster. The Taster who had saved her life, and the lives of all those she loved.

She did not know she cried until the hot tears stung her splintered lip. She reached up and brushed them away with her filthy fingers, ashamed of her weakness in the face of so much stoicism among the women. With the pain of the truth hammering into her, she suddenly realized that the life she had led in the future was truly meaningless. In her own time she had been independent and resourceful, never doubting she could take care of herself. Nothing in the future could have ever prepared her for a life in the past.

Before they reached the Long House, a warrior came striding toward them, his face etched with despair. Her stomach flipped over as she realized he was coming straight for her, and she grasped her daughter convulsively to her chest to protect her from what was to come.

“Come with me. My Weroance will speak to you,” he said. Sesapatae held out her arms for the baby, but Maggie shook her head. She knew the offer was sincere and that she could trust the woman, but she also knew she could not be parted from her child. If there was nothing within her power to do, she at least was sure she could protect her flesh and blood.

She followed the warrior into the Long House. There were no women sitting regally at his side this time, no warrior standing ready to pounce. He lay alone on his raised dais, his only comfort his oldest wife who tended his wound. Opechancanough bled from a wound to his stomach, and although it appeared to be more lateral to his flank, it could very well be fatal. When he turned his head and opened his round brown eyes, she could see he was well aware of that fact.

“Leave us,” he commanded. His voice held a tremor, yet even in his weakness, he would not be opposed. The wife finished bandaging the wound and quickly obeyed. The Long House emptied on his command. Maggie recalled the last time she had been alone with Winn’s uncle. It was a different Long House and a different village, yet the legendary man lying wounded in front of her was one and the same.

“Come closer, Red Woman. Let me see the child.”

She did as he asked, although her hands trembled as she pulled back the sling and released her sleeping daughter. The child often slept like the dead when her belly was milk full, and she hoped the babe remained quiet throughout their exchange.

“I will hold her,” he said gruffly. Maggie was shocked when he pulled himself into a sitting position, so much so that she rushed forward to help him when he let out a moan and clutched his side. He grunted and shrugged off her ministrations, instead holding his arms out for Kwetii.

“Not too tight,” she whispered. Seeing her lifeblood held in his arms weakened her, and the only motion left in her power was to sit down next to the Weroance on his dais. He raised an eyebrow at her and chuckled, but quickly returned his gaze to Kwetii, appearing enamored with her.

“You think I do not know how? I am a Great Warrior, as well as your husband is,” he said. “This life means much to me.”

He ran one crooked finger along her cheek, and she opened her blue eyes to stare at him. Usually the child made her presence known by screaming upon waking, but laying there in the arms of the elder Weroance she merely studied his weathered face. Maggie let out a sigh.

“Why did you save me?” he asked, keeping his gaze steady on the babe. Maggie swallowed hard and cleared her throat before she spoke.

“I don’t know,” she said softly. She had no urge to lie to him, only the desire to serve him the truth as she knew it, as scattered as it was from her slivered memory of childhood history lessons. “I didn’t think of it as saving you. I just realized too late that it was all poisoned. I didn’t want to see anyone die.”

He nodded, more to himself than to her, and patted the babe as he rocked her.

“Was this my time, Red Woman? Did you chase death from me today?”

“No,” she replied hoarsely. “You won’t die just yet. I know you live to be a very old man.”

He smiled.

“I have ordered the death of all the Blooded Ones, and all my warriors obey my command. Yet my own nephew, my favorite, son of my sister, he defies me … for you. For one red-haired Blooded One, he defied me. And now here in my arms, is this blood of my blood, this blood of a Time Walker.” He bent down and pressed his lips gently to Kwetii’s forehead, and the babe continued to stare peacefully at the warrior. “I see you there, you know. You are the one who will send me to death. You are the Blooded One who will bring death to me.”

Maggie put a hand on his arm. Her touch was light, yet she needed to connect to him, to show him somehow that she was no enemy.

“It will not be by my hand, and it will not be today. I can promise you that.”

He winced once more, seeming in pain, and gently turned to place the babe back in her arms. She helped him lay back down, yet as he stretched back onto the furs he reached up with one hand to cup her cheek.

“Keep safe my blood, Red Woman.”

She nodded. The old warrior closed his eyes, and she tucked a fur around him, placing Kwetii next to him as they both gave in to slumber. She would sit with him until his wife returned.

A shadow crossed the doorway. It was Winn, and Maggie threw herself into his waiting arms. Bruised and bleeding with the scent of smoke searing his skin but blessedly intact, he held her tight as his body shuddered.

“Don’t ever leave me again!” she cried, not caring that she was smeared with blood and sweat, nor that he shook his head furiously and clutched her harder.

“Shh, ntehem,” he whispered.

Only a few warriors returned from the peace treaty dinner. Winn was back, and he was safe. It was all she could ask for.

They spoke each night in quiet whispers as they embraced beneath the furs, seeking answers to the question of where to take their small family. Although Chulensak Asuwak decided to return to the remains of the Paspahegh village, Teyas insisted on staying with their band of misfits. Ahi Kekeleksu refused to leave, and although Maggie thought it merely an excuse for Chetan to stay, she was surprised Makedewa opted to join them as well.

Rebecca, however, was another matter entirely. She grew stronger while she lived amongst them, eventually coming to the point where she could tolerate interaction with the men without flying into a panic. Luckily her mind was sharp and she found comfort in the daily labors of living with them, and she knew the people who saved her from the Massacre meant her no harm.

For all his faults, Makedewa was still a brooding male, yet they all noticed the change in him since that fateful day. Formerly rash and loud, he became more thoughtful in his actions and made effort to speak in a neutral manner instead of round-the-clock angry. Clearly, he held more interest in Rebecca then just friendship, and Maggie found it amusing to watch him around the girl. She would have never expected him to fall for an Englishwoman, but as she watched him follow the girl around the camp like a lovesick puppy, she knew he was smitten. He knew how she had been damaged, and for all the desire in his eyes, there also burned a temperate patience he never showed before. Maggie was sure he would never do anything to harm her.

The decision on where to live, however, fell only on Winn, and for that matter, Winn demanded answers of Maggie that she could not give him. It frustrated her that she had not been a better student of history, but hindsight was a luxury she no longer dwelled on. He wanted to go south to live among the Nansemonds, where he knew they would be welcomed, but Maggie had doubts living among any Indian tribe would be safe for very long. She was fearful of relying on what she knew of history, yet Winn banked their lives on the few facts she was certain of. It was an impasse, for sure, but one that had to be rapidly resolved. Winter would overcome them soon, and to be settled well before the first frost would see much to ensure their survival.

The decision was made, however, and they believed it to be the right one. Maggie could offer no guarantee, and Winn had only his knowledge to guide them. Their destiny lay ahead, a future in the past. South, it would be.

They left on one of those lingering days of summer where the sun still scorched their skin as they worked, but the night brought enough chill to chase them beneath layers of furs. The horses stood waiting, Blaze tied to Maggie’s fat older mare, the yearling nipping at her flanks and causing her to squeal and stomp.

“Ready, Maggie?” Teyas called. Maggie finished tightening the rawhide strap that held her traveling sacks around the barrel of her pony, and Teyas peered over her shoulder.

“If Winn is ready, I’m good.”

“Find him, then, sister, I think he lingers too long at the waterfall.”

“All right. You go on, we’ll catch up. I think Kwetii will sleep some more,” Maggie replied. Teyas shrugged and mounted up, Kwetii carried in front of her in a makeshift pouch. Maggie crafted it after the babe outgrew the swaddling board, and Teyas liked to use it when they rode. The child was nearing too big to use the contraption any longer, but it would serve well for the ride, at least when she slept.

He was not difficult to find. Winn stood looking out over the waterfall when she approached, his countenance sculpted in thought, his warrior’s body softened in a forgiving stance as he gazed at the crashing water. When she moved to his side and slipped her arm through his, she was surprised to see her bloodstone suspended from a rawhide cord, hanging from his hand.

“You still have that,” she said softly.

“It belongs to you,” he replied. He placed it in her hand, closing his fist over it for a moment before he let go.

“I belong to you.”

“And I am yours, ntehem,” he whispered. “But I wonder if it is wrong of me to keep you here. I wonder if it is wrong of me to love you so much, to want you…to make you stay in this time.”

“You’re a fool, warrior,” she said softly. She placed her hand on his cheek and kissed him. “You can’t make me do anything! Haven’t you learned that yet?”

She turned abruptly. She would end his troubles, strike the worry from his heart, and tear the seeds of doubt away with one quick launch. Pulling her arm back, she prepared to throw the Bloodstone into the waterfall, but he stopped her with a firm hand around her wrist.

“No, little Fire Heart,” he murmured. He placed the lanyard around her neck, then pressed his hand over the stone against her heart. “It is part of you now. Keep it with you, as I will keep you, and let the right or wrong of it be damned.”

Maggie brushed her fingers over his.

“All right, then.”

They could see the others downstream from their spot on the waterfall, traveling in a line beside the river. Chetan let out a holler and Winn returned it in kind. She took her husband’s hand, and they left to join their family.

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THE TIES THAT BIND

BOOK 2

A farther Confirmation of this we have from the Hatteras Indians, who either then lived on Ronoak-Island, or much frequented it. These tell us, that several of their Ancestors were white People, and could talk in a Book, as we do; the Truth of which is confirm'd by gray Eyes being found frequently amongst these Indians, and no others.

- John Lawson, A New Voyage to Carolina, 1709

Maggie

Maggie reined her mount in closer to Winn’s war pony, taking comfort in the touch of her husband’s knee against hers as their horses brushed together. She reached for him, her fingers sliding against the slick skin of his golden-brown thigh. It had been a long ride on a humid summer day without rest, a sacrifice made to speed their journey home, and she was glad it would soon come to an end.

“Do you need rest?” Winn asked, placing his hand over hers. She shook her head.

“No. I just want to get back. The sooner the better.”

He tipped his head toward her, a slight movement, yet she felt the sudden tension of his leg muscle under her hand as his blue eyes met hers. She wanted to ask what was wrong, but if she knew nothing of his warrior ways by now, she knew enough when to keep silent. Her own body stiffened, her response attuned to his. He slowed his pony and hers followed suit.

“I think you are right. We will stop to rest,” he said, his voice louder than necessary. She felt the pressure of his fingers as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then slid down off his mount. Unease crept in as he lifted his arms to her waist to help her down.

He never helped her dismount, there was no need. She was perfectly capable, and he was no gentleman.

“I suppose I could use a drink,” she whispered.

His eyes held hers as she slid off the horse. He kept her close, her body sliding down tight against his chest, and if she had not been so scared she would have been lost in the sensation as he kept her shielded between him and the horse. She welcomed his touch, even knowing it was a ploy. His lips traced a path over her sun-scorched cheek to her ear where his words fell whispered in her hair as if only sweet endearments.

“We are being tracked. I think there are two men. One is behind us now. The other circles us.”

She bit down over her lower lip as he pressed a kiss to that soft sensitive place near her collarbone.

“How long have you known?” she asked. His arm slipped down around her waist and he pulled her closer.

“Since we left the river.”

“That was miles ago! You should have told me!” she hissed.

“There was no need for you to know!” he snapped back.

She ran her hands through his thick black hair, in part to continue the rouse, yet also to convey her frustration. He uttered a low growl in warning before he shoved her away. Stumbling backward a few paces before she regained her footing, she watched as Winn crouched into a defensive stance to face the two men who approached them.

The men were not strangers.

One stepped forward, knife raised.

“Kweshkwesh. You slither like a snake to follow us. Why?” Winn said, his words tempered with restraint. Maggie kept her eyes on them as they squared off, the two men circling as if bound in a creeping dance, each poised to strike.

Kweshkwesh glanced at her, his eyes dark orbs seared into the twisted mask of his face. She remembered him well, the sneaky warrior who had once stolen her from her husband. A scalp lock braid ran down the back of his neck, his skin a mesh of pox marked scars, and she could see him tremor as he confronted Winn.

As well he should. Her husband had spared his life on one occasion, and she was certain Winn would show no such mercy a second time. She ran her thumb over the butt of the knife tucked in her waistband as she watched them, noticing the second man observing as well. She knew enough of the Powhatan ways to understand the test of honor before her. Kweshkwesh had been deeply shamed in front of the entire village when Winn refused to take his life nearly a year ago. It was a matter that would be settled now by blood.

“You know why. I will have the head of your Time Walker,” Kweshkwesh said, his eyes shifting back to Winn.

Winn straightened from his crouch, extending the knife he held out toward Kweshkwesh, pointing it with precision at the other man’s heart.

“I regret I spared your life once before. Come here, little warrior,” Winn taunted him, waving to him as if in welcome. “I will end your suffering today.”

They crashed together with a slew of slurred Powhatan curses, Winn taking the upper hand almost immediately. The muscles flexed across his broad back as he wrestled Kweshkwesh to the ground, and although Winn was built much thicker than his opponent, Kweshkwesh was still a formidable fighter and used his wiry strength to twist from Winn’s grasp. Winn fell forward onto one knee and scrambled to rise.

Kweshkwesh lurched for Winn with his knife and the men crossed paths again. Maggie let out a cry as she watched the blade slice across Winn’s chest and he kneeled down onto the sandy soil facing away from her. Back to back, both warriors paused, the sounds of their ragged breathing filling the dank humid air.

Kweshkwesh straightened upright in front of Maggie, his mouth contorted in a bizarre grin. He took a step toward her, then wavered, his gait unsteady, and raised a hand to his throat as his eyes widened. His words came forth garbled and wet, as were his hands, drenched in pulsing blood.

“Elek?” he choked.

He plummeted forward onto the ground with a sickening thud.

Winn turned toward her, rising up from his crouch, his chest smeared with crimson blood.

“Winn!” she cried.

He looked beyond her, his crystal blue eyes narrowed into slits, as if she neither stood there nor spoke to him, focused on something else to her left. She had no time to consider what he was looking at, too worried about the second warrior that now moved in to attack her husband.

“No!” she screamed.

Her skin prickled as she heard footsteps crush the forest debris near her flank, and before she could turn she felt a whoosh of air ripple her hair as something flew by from behind her ear. She choked on her own scream as the second man fell, taken down by a long-handled axe impaled in his sternum.

Winn reached her side, and she fell into his arms as they stared at the fallen warrior.

“Bloody Indians!”

They looked toward the brush as a man strode toward them. Of equal height to Winn and just as threatening in his demeanor, he parted a new path, stomping on the undergrowth and breaking through low growing branches as if they were twigs. Eyes of a berserker glared at them from a dense bearded face, the thick muscled arms flexed at the sides of a broad chest as his skin dappled with droplets of sweat.

He placed a foot on the body then closed his hands over the axe handle, jerking it away with one quick motion. Maggie could only watch, stunned as he sheathed the weapon on his back, and Winn pulled her to her feet.

“I can see nothing’s changed. Ye still find trouble, no matter where you go, hmm, Maggie-mae?”

She flew into his arms.

“Marcus! How? Why? Oh!” she cried as he closed his arms around her. He lifted her off the ground, squeezing her so hard she laughed through the fresh burst of tears. She touched his face, covered with at least a few weeks worth of beard. “I didn’t recognize you with this thing! You’re here, you’re really here!”

“Aye, lamb, s’all right now, don’t cry,” he said. “Ye were tricky to find, and worse to follow. Did ye know those men tracked you for miles?” he added, directing his question over her shoulder to her husband. She stepped away from Marcus and grabbed Winn’s hand.

“Yes, I knew,” Winn muttered.

“Winn, it’s Marcus! I can’t believe it, he’s…he’s…here.” Winn was tense at her side, glaring at Marcus. Maggie felt as if she faded away at that moment, watching the two men locked in a silent battle as they stared each other down.

She squeezed Winn’s hand. He nodded at Marcus.

“Time Walker,” Winn said.

Marcus grunted some sort of acknowledgment.

“Winkeohkwet,” Marcus replied.

Her eyes darted between the two men, her words jumbled as they poured forth amidst her rising confusion.

“Wait a second! You…you used a Bloodstone? Why? How? What are you doing here, Marcus?” she asked.

He shifted his stare to Maggie and sighed, running one hand through his thick black hair and then down to rub his beard. Maggie had never seen him with facial hair, the unkempt growth giving him a menacing demeanor despite her knowledge of his gentle nature. Standing before her with two wide leather straps crossing his chest and his muscles tensed in readiness to strike, she hardly recognized the man she had known her entire life.

“Aye, I have a lot to tell you, but most of it can wait for now. I’ve been to this place before, and God knows I never thought to see it again so soon. First off, I came for my son.”

Winn’s eyes narrowed.

“Benjamin returned to his time. That was more than two years ago,” Winn answered.

“No, he’s still here,” Marcus insisted.

“But he went back. He used his Bloodstone, I saw him leave,” Maggie replied.

Marcus shook his head. “He never made it. Last trail I could find of him was a record of his release from jail at Jamestown. Seems no witnesses survived the massacre, so there was no one to speak against him. Did he really murder two men, Maggie? Can ye tell me nothing else about it?”

She glanced back at Winn, who remained immobile. As much as revisiting the past pained them both, she could not stand in front of Marcus and withhold it from him. He deserved to know what happened to his son. By right of blood and sacrifice of his journey, she could give him nothing less. After all, Benjamin had once been her husband, and despite what he had done she still believed there was something redeemable in him.

“If he was held at Jamestown, then something went wrong with the Bloodstone. I last saw him at Martin’s Hundred on the day of the Massacre…in the church,” she placed her hand on his arm. “I have so much to tell you, too, Marcus, things I couldn’t put in the letter. I think we should go home, and–and you’ll come with us, won’t you?”

He placed his hand over hers.

“I didn’t hunt ye down through time for the hell of it, for sure. Of course I’ll go with you. Can’t leave ye alone with all these angry Indians about, can I?” he replied, raising a brow with a glance at Winn. Winn nodded in response but said nothing more.

“Marcus–”

“I’ll get my horse.”

Marcus went back the way he came, leaving her standing there with Winn. She watched Marcus go through the underbrush, afraid he would disappear like a wisp of a memory once he left her sight.

Winn led her pony close and gave her a leg up. He rested his hand on her thigh for a moment as she gathered her reins, and she looked down at him. The shallow wound on his chest was no more than a scratch, the bleeding crusted already across the flesh. Thankfully, it would need no stitches.

“What about–about them?” she asked, nodding toward the two fallen men. Bile burned in her throat as she glanced at the deceased and she turned away lest she vomit.

“Leave them. Let the scavengers feast.”

She swallowed back against her dry mouth at his words, yet nodded in agreement all the same.

“And Marcus?”

“Let him return with us, if it pleases you, ntehem.”

“I can’t believe he’s here. You’re going to like him, you’ll see,” she promised. She could read the uncertainty etched into his face. It was a rare thing to see him rattled, yet she had a feeling it was not the last time the two men would rankle each other.

“Did you know he was a Time Walker?” he asked. She shook her head.

“My arrival here was an accident, I didn’t know anything about how to use the Bloodstones. What difference does it make, anyway? I’m happy to see him no matter how he got here.”

He gave her leg a gentle squeeze.

“He is right in one way, ntehem. Trouble follows you,” he sighed. “It is good that I have two sharp eyes to watch you with. If I knew Blooded Ones would come for you, I would have dropped all the Bloodstones in the ocean so no other could use them.”

“He won’t be any trouble, I’m sure of it,” she replied. Filled with the excitement of seeing Marcus, she had failed to consider how his arrival would affect her husband. As Winn stood looking up at her, she suddenly suspected what drove him to deny her happiness.

She twisted her fingers in her pony’s mane and bent down, planting a firm kiss upon his tense mouth.

“I love you, warrior. My place is here with you, no matter what happens,” she whispered. His hand slid up around the base of her neck and his fingers gripped her hair as he pressed his forehead to hers.

“I know,” he replied.

Marcus rode into the clearing and they quickly separated. Winn nodded to the other man, then pointed the way toward home. Seeming pleased with the interlude, the horses set off at a brisk pace, and Maggie knew she would see her family soon. After seeing the way a simple trade visit to the Chosick village had turned out, she would be happy to see the day end.

They reached the settlement by nightfall, the glimmer of the sleepy sun fading as their temporary home came into view. A cottage marked the center of the settlement, made of rough hewn logs. It was flanked by the lean-to and peaked yehakins in a semi-circle around the water well. Winn issued a shrill greeting to announce them, and Maggie waved as his sister came into sight.

When Teyas entered the yard with the squirming toddler in her arms, Maggie urged her pony into a lope and left the men behind. It had only been one day, yet anytime away from her daughter left her uneasy. There were just too many things that could go wrong in the time they lived in.

Maggie’s pony slid into a stop and she leapt off his back, covering the distance to her daughter in a few short strides. Winn’s sister smiled as she handed the child over, her two black braids bouncing as she laughed.

“Take her, she’s a pest!” Teyas teased, flicking her braids back over her shoulder. She squinted her brown eyes at Kwetii in mock disgust, and Maggie pecked the cheek of her sister-by-marriage as she pulled her daughter into her arms.

“Mama!” she child squealed, erupting into a fit of giggles when Maggie planted kisses over her face.

“A pest? Causing your Auntie trouble, hmm? Not my daughter!”

“Oh, no? She has not stopped howling since you left!” Teyas snorted. “Humph!”

“Is your Aunt a meany, Kwetii?” Maggie asked, holding the child up over her head. It seemed she recognized her name by the way she squealed, or it may have been the sight of her father walking toward her, yet whatever the reason Maggie was soon forgotten. The fickle child reached out to Winn and he swept her into his arms.

Marcus stood away a few paces away observing quietly with wide eyes, his arms crossed over his chest. Soon they would sit to talk, and all their questions would be answered. Even without Marcus admitting he had visited their time once before, she would have known it was so by the sheer level of comfort he displayed in his surroundings. Although he stood away from the family as they greeted each other, his behavior lent no lack of confidence. Apparently, he had arrived in her time well prepared and rapidly found a way to procure supplies like weapons and horses.

No, Marcus had not idly traveled to the past on a whim. He was apparently a powerful Blooded One, a full blown Time Walker, and furthermore, he had hid it from her during her entire life. As she watched him gazing patiently at her family, she dismissed the itch of betrayal she felt.

There must be some explanation. Once the baby was settled and there was food in their bellies, they would sit, and it would all be said.

“Marcus,” she called, waving him over. “Come meet Kwetii.”

“Pa-pa! Uppy, uppy!” Kwetii squealed. Maggie smiled as Winn tossed their daughter into the air and the child flailed, shrieking with laughter. The crop of dark waves on her head bounced against her caramel skin as she laughed, her chubby fingers gripping Winn’s hands. So alike, yet so different, father and daughter were a pair that would not be separated. Maggie knew her daughter loved her, but when her father was present, everyone seemed to disappear. Maggie didn’t mind so much. She was content to see the fierceness fade from her warrior as he looked down at their daughter with tenderness in his eyes.

“She’s beautiful, Maggie,” Marcus said softly.

“She is,” Maggie agreed.

“Kwetii,” Winn said, adjusting the toddler in his arms. “See this man? He is Marcus, friend to us.”

Maggie did not miss the inflection in his tone with the words. She appreciated the effort he made to subdue his suspicion, yet she imagined he would have much more to say on the matter when they retired to their furs.

“Little one,” Marcus said. “You look like yer mother, she was a pretty child as well,” he murmured.

Maggie felt the trickle of unease flow stronger. He knew that Kwetii meant little one in Winn’s language? She could see Winn picked up on it as well by the way his arms tensed around their daughter.

“Ooh, pretty, pretty!” Kwetii squealed, pointing at the sky with one chubby hand. Maggie raised her chin to see what her daughter fussed over.

Streaking across the night sky, leaving a crisscross of shimmering trails behind, bursts of light streamed overhead in a path toward the earth.

A meteor shower.

Winn handed Kwetii to her. Seeing the realization rise in his eyes, the way his jaw clamped shut and his skin flushed to the tips of his ears, she knew he remembered it too. She saw his hand shift to his side to rest on the butt of his knife as the words of an old prophecy rushed into her thoughts.

“A night when stars fall from the sky,” the old woman said. “That is when he will return.”

“Pale Feather?” she whispered, more to herself than the others.

Marcus frowned.

“It’s been a long time since anyone called me that, but, aye. I was once called Pale Feather. This one comes from the Paspahegh, right?” Marcus said, nodding toward Winn. “I thought the English wiped them all out.”

She thought Winn would explode. His voice finally surfaced as a growl through his clenched teeth.

“Not all of us, Time Walker. Go to the cabin, Maggie. Now.”

Maggie could count the number of times she obeyed her husband without argument, and they were not numerous enough to take up the fingers of even one hand. Yet seeing Winn standing there with Marcus, the sky exploding overhead in a shower of falling meteors, she turned without hesitation and went into the house. Teyas followed close behind.

The men needed no further interruption. Winn and his father had much to talk about.

Maggie

There was a fire burning in the stone hearth, the scent of stew carried through the cottage by wisps of smoke. The small house was cozy yet afforded them enough space, serving their little family as the traditional community Long House would in the Paspahegh village. As an abandoned remnant from an English settler, it had not been difficult to procure the head rights to the property. Of the settlers who survived the Massacre of 1622, many had left their property and either moved close to Jamestown for protection or left the colony on the next ship back to England.

When Maggie and Winn expressed interest in the unoccupied piece of land, the Governor readily agreed. As long as Winn helped the English negotiate the return of prisoners, the English were content to allow their little family to live in peace. Winn thought it safest for them to live between two worlds, beholden entirely to neither the Indians nor the English. She agreed with him in that respect; although Opechancanough had given them the promise of safe passage, she was still a Time Walker, and there was still a price on her head.

“Did you cause so much trouble in your future life, sister?” Teyas asked.

Teyas handed her a sticky mug of steaming blackberry tea as Maggie sat down heavily on a bench. Kwetii climbed down from her lap and toddled off toward the hearth, where she plopped down to play with a discarded doll.

“He’s Winn’s father. Marcus, I mean. Marcus is Winn’s father.”

She spoke the words, yet still the meaning was impossible. Marcus, who had been kin to Maggie as long as she could remember, was the man who formed one cornerstone of the tiny family unit she grew up with–in the twenty-first century.

Maggie looked through the window at them. The image was blurred through the rough-hewn glass, but she could still see the two men standing together. Head to head, shoulder to shoulder, suddenly she could see the resemblance, and she wondered if she might have noticed it earlier had she not been so blind. She should have known her journey to the past was no isolated incident, that some greater power linked her and the people she loved to this time. Now she knew with a growing sense of unease that it was much more complicated than some simple episode of chance.

“So Finola spoke true. Pale Feather has returned,” Teyas said. Maggie nodded. “Do you think they will harm each other?”

Maggie sighed. “I’m not sure. We’ll have to stop them if they do. Where are Makedewa and Chetan?”

“They took Rebecca and Ahi Kekeleksu to the outpost for supplies. They should return soon.”

“I hope so,” she replied. Teyas joined her on the bench near the window to watch the men. Maggie could see them talking, or at least gesturing at each other, but she could not hear since they were too far off in the yard. She hoped Winn’s brothers would arrive soon. They needed a distraction quickly, and the strength of the men would certainly come in handy.

“What of his brother?” Teyas asked.

“Hmm?” she murmured, intent on watching the men. “What of them? You said they’ll be back soon, right?”

“No sister, I speak of his white brother. Benjamin. Is he truly here still, in our time?”

“Oh…Benjamin. His brother.” It felt quite strange to make the connection aloud. “Marcus says he never returned to the future, that he found records of him in the past. I thought we’d be able to talk more about it, but I’m not sure we’ll get the chance.”

Teyas shrugged.

“It is no matter, we will all hear it soon. Get that bucket of water, sister. I think we have need of it.”

Maggie flinched as the two men crashed together like a pair of titans, shoulder to shoulder, arms entwined. She grabbed the wooden pail and ran past Teyas into the yard.

Winn

Winn held his tongue until his wife and daughter entered the cabin. He surveyed his father silently during the interval. Yes, Marcus was everything Maggie had described him to be: an imposing Viking of a man with the face of a berserker, a man who could crush anyone who threatened him. Yet as Winn stood staring into the eyes that mirrored his own, he regarded him only as a coward. After all, the man had used his Bloodstone to abandon his pregnant wife, and with the way Marcus sniped about the Paspahegh, Winn wondered if the man had any regard for his mother at all.

“Pale Feather. I hear of you, yet you know nothing of me,” Winn said once the cabin door closed.

His father’s brows narrowed.

“I know enough,” Marcus answered tersely. “And I know one lone Paspahegh is not enough to keep my kin safe. I won’t let Maggie stay with you if this is how you protect her. Those men could have killed ye both today if I hadn’t been there.”

“You? You, of all, you question how I protect my wife? What of your wife? You left her like a coward, sneaking away with your Bloodstone!”

Winn saw a flicker in his eyes.

“Chulensak Asuwak? Ye don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m sure she’s long gone with the rest of your people.”

“My people? You speak of us like you were never Paspahegh!” Winn said, his voice rising with each syllable. How could his own sire behave in such a way? Or was Winn the biggest fool for expecting anything more?

“Paspahegh, Powhatan, they’re all the same, and good riddance to the lot of them. Tell me what you think of them someday, when ye are hunted like a dog over a stupid old man’s vision,” Marcus replied, looking toward the house. “I’m here for one reason–to see my kin safe. If any of ye Indians get in my way, it will be the last thing ye ever do–no matter who ye are.”

Marcus straightened up to his full height, which mirrored his own, and Winn tensed the muscles in his back as well.

“So why marry a Paspahegh, if you hate us so much?” Winn asked, unable to hold back the questions he held buried for so many years.

“What do ye know of that? Aye, it was arranged. It meant nothing other than keeping my head at the time, but she was a good woman, I am sorry to hear of her death.”

Winn scowled at the causal manner in which his father dismissed his mother. He glanced back at the cabin. Maggie would be furious if he sent Marcus away. How could he ever explain it to her? Yet the urge to silence his father in a more permanent manner grew stronger with every moment in the man’s presence.

“She lives. My mother lives,” Winn said quietly. He expected a reaction from the man, but the result was nothing short of disgust. Marcus scowled.

“Your mother, eh? So she finally got what she wanted. Pepamhu, was it? That Nansemond brave is your father? I have no quarrel with him.”

The words barely left his lips before Winn lunged at his father.

They tumbled onto the ground, rolling in the dirt, neither willing to relent. Unbridled rage flowed from Winn like the surge of a dam held back, finally released by the harsh words from the man beneath him. Marcus would not be subdued easily, and Winn was taken aback by the fierceness with which he fought.

Relentless and calculated, every move meant to advance his dominance while sparing the bulk of his strength for his final assault. Marcus broke the hold Winn had on his neck and sent him sprawling with a sharp knee to his belly. Winn rolled to the side before his father’s heel came crashing down in the dust where his head had just been, and as Marcus uttered a swear Winn grasped his heel and uprooted him with one swipe, knocking him flat on his back. They rolled and grabbed for each other at the same time.

The man fought like him. Or did Winn fight like his father?

“Stand down!” Marcus shouted as they each scrambled for control. Winn pinned him with one knee, one hand clutched around his throat. His chest heaved with the effort of catching a breath, his body unaccustomed to the effort it took to fight such a man.

“You coward! I’ll kill you!” Winn yelled back.

“I’ll take ye with me, Indian!”

As Winn closed his grip tighter on his father’s neck he watched the man’s face turn purple, with rage or lack of air he knew not. Marcus kept his blue eyes focused on Winn’s as the breath left his lungs, and just as his lids began to droop, both men were doused in a stream of cold water.

They jumped apart, sputtering and gasping for air.

“No one is killing anyone today, idiots!” Maggie hollered.

Winn wiped his forearm over his drenched face and looked up at his wife. She held the bucket at her side, her green eyes flashing with irritation, her long auburn hair rippling behind her with the breeze. Her chapped cheeks were stained with remnants of dusty tears.

“Just stop it, okay?”

Winn shook his head, more to clear his thoughts than to refuse her.

“I’m sure Marcus will explain himself. And Marcus, you can hardly blame Winn for being angry–for Pete’s sake, you’re his father, and you just left with that stupid Bloodstone!”

Marcus recovered his bearings enough to stand up about the same time that Winn also rose from the ground. Winn watched his demeanor change from rank anger to something else, something confused and guarded.

“What are ye talking about?” Marcus asked, the words seeming caught in his throat.

“Winn, of course! Didn’t he tell you? Well, then what on Earth are you two fighting about?” Maggie stammered.

Winn stared blankly at Marcus. He made a harsh grunting sound.

“There is nothing to talk about. This man dishonors my mother, he hates every Powhatan. I have no father.”

“Winn, please –” Maggie pleaded.

“Speak your words to my wife. When I return I will show you the way back to town.”

He did not look at any of them again as he walked away. He feared what he might do or say if he remained any longer. It would serve no purpose to frighten his wife with more fighting. Yet if he stayed in the presence of his father any longer, he knew they would come to blows again.

She would understand, he thought as he walked off toward the woods. Or at least she would have to put her objections aside until he returned.

Maggie

She did not move to stop him as he walked away. Maggie watched her husband take the trail toward the stream, and when she lost sight of his back through the trees in the moonlight, she turned to Marcus.

“Maggie–”

“He’s your son. How could you leave him? And you lied to me–my entire life, you lied to me!” she accused.

“I dinna know about him, I swear it.”

“Don’t. Please don’t tell me any more lies,” she said softly.

He swiped at the dust on his face with one dirty hand and shrugged his shoulders, which loosened the leather straps crossing his chest. She looked at the long-handled axe lying on the ground apparently flung off during the fight, and wondered if her oldest friend might have used it on her husband if she had not intervened.

Marcus followed her gaze, and she heard him sigh.

“I never meant to keep it from ye so long. Yer grandda and I decided it was not time to tell ye yet, and then he got sick…” he said. She flinched and pulled back when he reached his hand toward her, the crushed look on his face smashing her resolve into shambles. He dropped his hands and then crossed them over his chest in an awkward motion, as if he knew not what to do with them.

“Go on,” she said stiffly.

“Yer grandda and I–well, we lived here for a time. There were many of us then, the Indians called us Time Walkers. No name of our own doing, ye see, only what they knew us by.” She saw his jaw tighten and his arms clench slightly as if the words pained him. “Opechancanough turned on us, and many were killed. Me and yer grandda, we were lucky to get away.”

She thought the ground started to sway, but it was only the sensation of her blood draining to her feet. He stepped forward and firmly took hold of her upper arm, despite her trying to wave him off.

“My Granddad? You were both Time Walkers! You lied about that, too?” she whispered.

“Nay, we dinna lie. We planned to tell ye… you must understand, the Bloodstone magic is dangerous, it can kill ye as fast as it takes ye to another time. We could tell you nothing, less risk all our necks. Until ye were old enough, at least, to know where ye came from. It was my duty to protect my clan. I failed many, but I saved some by taking them to the future.”

“I don’t believe you. Why should I believe you now?” She wrenched her arm away and turned her back to him, unwilling to see the pain her words caused him. Never could she imagine she would be standing before him, this man she loved, spitting barbs at him as if there were no feeling left in her heart.

“Believe me or not, lamb, that’s yer right. Ye know I came through time to fetch my son, ye see me standing here before ye. Have I ever failed you? Have I ever let anyone bring harm to ye? I know I deserve your anger now, but give me some credit. I’m still the man who raised ye.”

She had no answer for that statement, trying her best to control the swell of tears that threatened to burst.

“My parents. They were Time Walkers, too?” she choked.

Maggie felt his presence beside her. She closed her eyes as he put his hands on her shoulders. He nodded.

“They are gone, like many of the others.”

“What happened to Benjamin’s mother then? Did she really leave you? Tell me all of it,” she demanded.

“Young Helgrid. We were betrothed as children. She made it through to your time with us.”

“Is she dead too?”

“She’s gone. She left when Benjamin was a lad, I don’t know where she ended up. She couldn’t handle the future, not like the rest of us. But Benjamin–”

“Your son is a good man. Both sons. Both are good men,” she murmured. She felt his fingers tighten on her arms.

“Will ye tell me of him? Of them?” he asked. “I didn’t know about him–about Winn. His mother said nothing, you must believe that.”

She sighed.

“Put away your weapons, and go up to the house. Teyas will let you in. I need to find Winn, he deserves to hear this.”

“I’ll go for the boy,” Marcus quickly offered.

Maggie shook her head.

“No, I’ll do it. He grabbed his bow before he left, I have no doubt he’d shoot your ass,” she muttered. “And Marcus?” she added.

“Yes?”

“Don’t call him ‘boy.’ I don’t think he’d take that very well, coming from you.”

She pointed to the cabin to shoo him away, and left to find her husband.

He was not difficult to locate. She found him sitting on a flat rock that jutted out over the edge of the shallow stream, a secluded spot they used for bathing. She felt his muscles tense and then relax when she put her arms around his shoulders and sat down behind him.

“Will you come home soon?” she asked. Her hands crossed over his chest, and he placed his hand on hers. When she pressed a gentle kiss to his neck, she could taste the bitterness of honeysuckle soap and salty sweat, the scent of the earth fresh upon his skin.

“Yes, I will,” he said quietly.

“He says he didn’t know about you.”

“He speaks lies.”

Winn caressed her hand with his thumb and then raised her hands to his lips to kiss her palms, one by one, hesitating for a moment over the faded silver scar knotted on her skin.

“Come home now, husband,” she said softly, her voice lowering an octave.

“I would cause you pain, ntehem, when I send him away.”

“Don’t make him leave. At least talk to him first,” she urged.

She felt his muscles stiffen beneath her fingers, his chest tensed as he passed slow shallow breaths.

“Please. I’m only asking you to talk to him. If you still want him to leave then, it’s up to you.”

He stood then and pulled her to her feet beside him.

“Come on. I will hear his words, and then send him away.”

Maggie kept her relief hidden as they walked back to the yard. Her husband had already killed one man that day, and Marcus another. Perhaps they could yet avoid more bloodshed.

The threesome was sitting around the table when Maggie and Winn arrived, sharing the new batch of blackberry tea and passing around a basket of fresh bread. Kwetii sat happily on Marcus’s lap, gumming a piece of crust, while Teyas tried to persuade the child to take a drink. Maggie was pleased to see Teyas had scrounged up a white trade shirt for Marcus, and he looked as if he had cleaned up a bit.

Kwetii squealed and held up her arms at the sight of her father. Maggie held her breath as Winn went to her. She could see it in his eyes as he glared at Marcus, the shadow of a strong little boy who grew up fighting for every scrap of respect he garnered. Sometimes loved, sometimes an outcast because of his heritage, Winn had lived as many lives as his Time Walker father, learning to adapt and survive no matter where his uncle sent him. Now as she watched her husband with his father, she wondered if there was any sliver of hope left for peace between them.

“Here, lamb, go to your da,” Marcus said, urging the child to Winn. Kwetii climbed into her father’s arms and smothered him with sloppy kisses.

“Hungry?” Teyas asked, breaking the silence. Maggie took a seat next to her.

“Starving,” she murmured. Marcus and Winn did not acknowledge each other, but Winn sat down across from her and she was grateful he relented enough to join them. Kwetii babbled happily and picked at her father’s food, trying to help him eat.

“Do you want me to take her?” she asked. Winn shook his head, barely raising his eyes in acknowledgement.

The silence was blessedly broken by the door swinging open. Winn’s brothers returned fresh from a trip to the outpost, bags full of supplies slung over their shoulders. Rebecca and Ahi Kekeleksu followed close behind. Chetan halted at the sight of Marcus and put his hand on his young son’s shoulder, stopping Ahi Kekeleksu from going near Marcus. The boy stared wordlessly at them, his eyes wide under his thick dark lashes as he waited for his father’s command.

“Chama Wingapo,” Chetan said slowly in welcome with a glance to Winn. Chetan stood motionless in survey of the stranger, his arms tensed at the sides of his thick-barreled chest. Maggie noticed the quick exchange between the brothers; a slightly raised brow, a twist in the corner of a lip, and an imperceptible nod. It took only a split second for Winn to convey his approval to his brothers. Chetan let go of Ahi Kekeleksu.

“Wanishi, friend,” Marcus replied.

Maggie listened as the men exchanged cordial greetings in Paspahegh. She was by no means fluent in the language, but she had a conversational knowledge and understood a few of the words. She expected a show of surprise from Chetan when Marcus communicated as such, yet Chetan remained impassive. Always the calm one, Chetan regarded most situations in a peaceful manner, yet like his brothers, he was no man to tangle with. She had only seen him so provoked one time, and that had been immediately prior to the massacre when he helped save her from the English.

“What are they saying?” she whispered to Teyas. Teyas rolled her eyes.

“They act like wolves. They piss on their territory.”

“Oh, Christ,” Maggie replied. The men continued to speak rapidly amongst themselves. She noticed Ahi Kekeleksu standing aside, focused on the exchange as he tore off pieces of his ration of bread and stuffed them into his mouth.

Makedewa listened to the banter as well, adopting his usual disposition when matters annoyed him. The younger brother of the three, he was easily angered, full of rash temper and quick displays of aggression when provoked. He had become a bit less intimidating in the time she had known him, but Maggie still steered clear of him when he had a sour look on his face. Apparently he did not care for the tone of the discussion, his mouth clamped shut in a thin line and his arms folded over his wiry chest as he observed.

Winn said something loudly, causing the others to fall silent for a moment. She could see the way Marcus clenched his jaw through narrowed lips. He looked her way, his eyes meeting hers before he spoke.

“I told yer wife as I tell ye now, take my word or no. I knew naught of ye until this day. If I could change it I would, but I cannot, and I am sorry for it.”

She bunched the edge of her cotton shift in her hand, waiting for Winn’s response.

“Keep your words. You came for Benjamin. You may stay until you find him and no longer,” Winn said. He would not look her way as he spoke, his gaze fixed instead on Marcus.

“I need yer help. That’s why I tracked ye down. That, and to see Maggie safe.” Marcus sighed. “I don’t know how much Maggie has told ye of the future. They keep records then, more than you can imagine. After I found Maggie’s letter, I found quite a lot of information on Benjamin…and on you and Maggie. You’d be surprised what people keep records of.”

“About Winn and I? What records?” she interrupted. Marcus squinted and looked down at his drink, avoiding her gaze.

“Ah, land records, for one. That’s how I knew where to find you. This head right of yours is unique. How did ye manage to convince the English to give ye a head right property, being a Paspahegh…and you, Maggie, now you’re the same, according to the English, anyway.”

“I serve as counsel to the English for my uncle. The English trust me for now,” Winn answered.

“Do they trust ye enough to give ye information on Benjamin?” Marcus asked.

Winn nodded. “I know men who will talk. I will leave for Jamestown when the sun rises, if he was there, the English will tell me.” Winn finally met her gaze before he spoke further. “You can ride there with me if you wish.”

She saw Marcus relax his shoulders.

“Yes, I will. Thank ye,” Marcus replied.

“Makedewa,” Winn said, “you can tell me about this foolish coat you wear. Join me outside, brother, I need more hands to see to the horses.”

Winn effectively ended the conversation, putting Kwetii on the ground. The toddler scurried to Rebecca and held up her hands, and the girl immediately picked her up.

Maggie watched Winn leave with his brother. Makedewa wore a scarlet coat studded with brass buttons, obviously obtained from one of the English soldiers.

“Do I want to know how he got that coat, Chetan?” she asked, expecting a straight answer from the more reliable of the two. Chetan grinned, a gesture that did not convey any reassurance to her.

“No Englishman died, Fire Heart. Makedewa is good at dice, especially when the soldiers drink rum. Mind your business, sister,” he chuckled, using a phrase from her own repertoire. She jabbed him with her elbow and joined his laughter.

“Yeah, mind my business. Sure,” she replied.

If only she could take such advice.

Maggie

Her laughter tapered off when Chetan followed his brothers outside. She would need to figure out a place for Marcus to sleep, preferably outside, but she was not sure where the best place would be. Of the two yehakins, she shared one with Winn, and his brothers shared the other with Chetan’s son, Ahi Kekeleksu. Teyas and Rebecca slept in the cottage loft, leaving the small room in the rear of the cottage available, but she was reluctant to subject Rebecca to a stranger in the cottage. Although she was still angry at Marcus, it made little sense to see him sleep in the barn when there was a perfectly good cot available inside.

“I’ll tend to my horse with the others,” Marcus said.

“I’m sure the brothers will take care of it, it’s no problem,” Maggie replied. “Leave them be for now. Don’t you think we should all just cool off? There’s been a lot to take in today.”

Marcus nodded.

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” he said quietly. “There sure has.”

She heard the pause in his words as he looked out the window at the brothers. Suddenly she felt like a complete fool. Yes, Marcus had kept things from her, important things, but she was not so dense that she didn’t understand why. As she watched her daughter playing, she could see exactly why Marcus and her grandfather kept the truth from her. She would do the same to protect her child from such dangerous magic.

She remembered the day when Benjamin disappeared as a boy and the pain it caused Marcus to lose his young son. Marcus had changed that day, from a man who laughed easily to one who rarely smiled. Though still loyal to fault and protective of his family, the loss of his child had changed him. Now as he stared out the window at the son he didn’t know he had, she could see in him a fragment of the desolate bereaved parent he once was. Though he had traveled to the past to find one son, he now had two to consider, and she could hardly imagine how the man must be feeling.

“We shall take Kwetii to yer yehakin, if it pleases ye, Maggie,” Rebecca said, breaking the silence. Kwetii grabbed the cap off Rebecca’s head when the young woman lifted her up, causing her springy blond curls to fall loose.

“Thank you,” Maggie replied. “I brought a bundle of garments back from trade with the Chosicks. You can take a look if you like.”

Rebecca preferred the English manner of dress and continued to wear a heavy layered skirt over her shift with a jacket bodice fitted snugly over it, despite the constrictions it caused in the warm summer months. Maggie made the offer knowing Rebecca would likely refuse, but she was determined to keep trying to help her be more comfortable.

“Nay, I like my own just fine. G’night to ye.”

Maggie gave Kwetii a kiss before she went off to bed. Rebecca adjusted the child on her hip and followed Teyas out the door, sneaking a glance at Marcus as she passed.

“Night,” Maggie answered. “I’ll be there soon, sweetheart.”

When the door closed behind the women, she sat down heavily on the bench next to Marcus. She propped her elbows on the table and rested her head in her hands for a moment, the events of the day sinking in as she let out a sigh.

“Don’t ye pass out. Yer husband will blame me for that as well,” Marcus said.

“Yes, he would. He’s a good man. He would give his life to protect his family, if it was necessary,” she answered softly. “He’s had a hard time of it, Marcus. He was shuttled around by his uncle to live wherever it suited him best–he lived with the Nansemond, the Paspahegh, and …” her words trailed off as she looked into his eyes. “With the English. He lived with Benjamin’s family for two summers. They were like brothers.”

“Like brothers,” Marcus said, the corner of his lip dipping downward. “Aye, it must have been hard on the lad.”

He ran his hands through his thick dark hair, the color of his skin flushed from neck to ears. He rose and thrust the wooden bench back with one quick shove, nearly causing her seat to topple as he arched his back and stared upward, as if begging the heavens for guidance.

“I never meant to cause this trouble. I thought to see you safe, find my lad, and have words with yer husband…now this. My son? Benjamin is likely dead, and yer husband willna forgive me.”

She shook her head.

“You’re wrong on both counts. Benjamin is too damn stubborn to be dead. And Winn? Winn will come around. He just needs time. After a good night’s rest, I think we’ll all see things more clearly, right?”

She stuck her hand in the stitched pocket of her shift, which was belted over her short doeskin skirt. It took a moment to find it, but when she pulled out the raven figure his response was quick. His eyes softened and rimmed with moisture at the sight of it. He reached out for it, palm up, but then pulled his hand back.

“You had that all this time?” he choked.

“Yes. I think it sent me here. There’s a reason for everything, Marcus, I’m more convinced of that than ever now.”

He crossed his arms over chest, the thin white fabric of the trade shirt stretched to near tearing over his shoulders.

“When did ye turn into such an optimist? I hardly recognize ye!”

It felt good to smile, and hearing him joke opened the doorway to the playful banter they once shared.

“Optimist? That’s about the only thing I haven’t been accused of in this time,” she laughed. She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

She waited as long as she could for Winn to retire to their yehakin, but as the night wore on the excitement of the day grew heavy and she succumbed to the fatigue to lie down without him. Should she search for him, or let him come home on his own? Perhaps the company of his brothers was what he needed, instead of his wife, who would ask him to forget the past and welcome his long-lost father.

What else could she do? Winn, the one who knew her best of all. He knew how much she loved Marcus, how the man had been family to her. Would he hold onto his anger, and follow through with the promise he made her long ago– the vow to kill his father should he ever meet him?

As much as she knew her husband, she admittedly knew little of the warrior he had been before they met. She could only guess upon it from the manner in which others regarded him. Even when his brothers voiced dissent, they still deferred to Winn’s decisions on every matter despite the fact they no longer lived with the Paspahegh tribe and Winn was War Chief no more. Yet as she lay beside him at night and traced the winding tattoo upon his flat belly, she could recall the meaning of each mark as he conveyed it to her.

No, there were some things about him she might never truly understand. Nor did she need to. There was no reason for her to know how many he had killed, or when, or why. She did not ask it of him after the massacre, and she would not ask it now. It was his past, a part of him he could share if he chose, or hold onto if not.

Her eyes had just closed when he slipped into the yehakin. With his usual stealth he slid between the furs behind her, placing his arms around her to pull her against his chest. The heat of the day had skittered away and she snuggled into the warmth of his skin against her back. She smiled as his lips ran over her ear and he placed a soft kiss against her neck.

“Winn?” she said softly.

“Hmm?” he murmured.

Even as he rested his hand on her hip and pressed his lips into her hair, she could sense the pull of his unease. The gentle rise and fall of his chest against her cheek was soothing as she snuggled closer, aching to calm him as he did for her.

“You’re going to town tomorrow?” she asked quietly.

His arms tightened around her.

“Yes,” he said. “If Benjamin still lives, I will find what happened to him. Do not worry, I will return before the sun sleeps.”

He rubbed her back absently, his blue eyes shadowed as he looked up at the moonlight through the smoke hole.

“I don’t like you going into town. I’m afraid they’ll turn on you. Look at how they burned the crops–they even attack the peaceful tribes. There’s no sense to it.”

“They have few men they trust to negotiate, and the new English soldiers have orders to keep peace. There will be no trouble for me, wife.” He was right. The English crown had taken over control of the colony in the last few months after revoking the charter of the Virginia Company, and so far, the English had sought to calm relations between the settlers and the Indians. She hoped it would be enough to save her small crop of corn this season, as it had been burned by English scabs in the fall.

“You’ll take your brothers, too, then?” she asked. “Makedewa and Chetan, I mean.”

“If you would have it so, then yes,” he replied.

She waited for him to acknowledge the unanswered question, giving him the chance to speak on it. After a few minutes his breathing slowed, and she knew if she did not broach the subject, it might never be said.

“Winn?” she whispered.

“Hmm?”

“What about your …brother?”

She traced the line of his tattoo from the point of his hip to the indent of his navel, the black ink design raised slightly from his skin. She felt him shudder and he grabbed her hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss.

“Chetan had a wife, years ago, when we were young warriors. She was called Sapalente.”

She opened her mouth to speak but thought better of it.

“English men visited the village to trade with us. We had little to share with them that year, enough for our people, but not enough for the English as well. They were angry, they thought our women hid the corn. So they took our women to the Long House, and bound them hand and foot. They put the women inside and set the Great Yehakin on fire.”

His muscles grew tight beneath her hand. She could see the throbbing of the pulse in his neck, standing out like a cord. The flat Bloodstone pendant lay on his chest, betraying the quickening of his breath as he spoke.

“Many men were away hunting, as was Chetan. Makedewa and I stayed behind to meet with the Council. Men of the Council were old men, no warriors, and they were rounded up by the English as well. I killed the man who touched Sapalente first. And then Makedewa and I killed the others.”

She swallowed hard.

“And the women? Sapalente? Did she live?” she asked.

“Yes. No women died that day.”

“But what happened to her?”

“She birthed Ahi Kekeleksu and then died of the spotted fever. The English killed her after all.” He frowned and looked down at her. “I tell you this to show you what a brother is. I would give my life for my brothers, as they would give for you. They need not ask it of me, they have it by honor of our bond. There was a time when Benjamin was brother to me, you know this,” he said, his voice rising. Kwetii stirred and hiccupped across the yehakin.

“I understand, Winn, I do,” she said, placing her hand on his cheek. She felt him tremble, the anger palatable under her fingertips.

“No, you do not. Chetan did not ask me to save his woman, he did not need to speak any words to show me the way. The day Benjamin took you from me, when I lay wounded with him at my side, I thought soon I might take my last breath. I asked it of Benjamin, to protect you, since I could not. Do you know what it means, to ask such a thing of a man?”

“Winn–”

“My English brother, the man I called friend? He stole you from me and left me for dead. He kept you with him by his lies. He sent you to hang as a witch–with my daughter in your belly! Do not ask it of me, wife. Do not ask me to call him brother. He is nothing to me but another Englishman.”

“I won’t ask it,” she whispered. She bowed her head to his shoulder, tearing away from his searing blue eyes, unable to take in the intensity of his gaze. In the end, Benjamin had saved her, but that fact meant nothing to her husband. She could not fault him for his resolve, yet even as she held him and felt his tremors ease, she knew it was a matter long from settled.

“Stay out of the fields while I am gone tomorrow. Keep near the yehakins until we return,” he mumbled, effectively ending the discussion with a demand. Although she did not voice her submission, she nodded in agreement.

He pulled her snugly against his chest and kissed her forehead. She felt his breathing grow shallow in the silence, and his heartbeat slowed beneath the touch of her ear pressed against his skin.

Winn

Chetan led the way, always the guide on any excursion they made. He was the best tracker of the three brothers, and Winn valued his skill above any other. Makedewa hung back in his usual position flanking the group from behind, keeping a careful watch for any danger that followed. Winn slowed his mount to ride with his younger brother, unwilling to ride alongside Marcus.

Pale Feather, the coward. Whoever the man was, he could ride alone.

“What do you think of the tempers in town?” Winn asked Makedewa. The other warrior shrugged and uttered a non-committal grunt.

“No different than usual. They speak with one face to you, another face to their King. For now we should have no trouble.”

“I see you leave your pretty red coat behind. No need of it today?” Winn grinned, chiding him. Winn knew full well why Makedewa stopped wearing the English solider coat, and it had nothing to do with fearing the townsfolk. Makedewa won the coat fairly in a dice game, along with a small flask of gunpowder and a jug of sack. The three brothers had enjoyed the wine while tending to the horses the night before, and as they finished it Makedewa confessed he only wore it to impress Rebecca. Unfortunately, his attempt had backfired. The young Englishwoman thought it obscene and told the warrior as much.

“Ah, that coat reeks of Tassantassas. I will not wear it again,” Makedewa grumbled.

“You worry too much of what that girl thinks. Wear it if you please.”

Makedewa laughed aloud at Winn’s words.

“Oh, yes, brother. I think too much of a woman? Maybe you do not see the sun through the clouds. If Maggie smiles, you smile. If she cries, you sulk. And help us, Creator, when she rages, for then you act a fool!” he laughed.

Winn shook his head in mock disgust, yet laughed with him.

“You will see, little brother.”

“No, I will not,” Makedewa said, as his laughter eased and his lips tightened. “She will never smile at me as Maggie smiles at you.”

Winn cocked his head to the side as his pony plodded on. He looked up ahead to ensure the others did not listen, and once satisfied they paid no heed, he spoke quietly to his younger brother. He saw the change in Makedewa at his confession. Tall, lean, every ounce a powerful warrior, his brother had shown an unusual glimpse of kindness to the girl. It had been Makedewa who saved her during the Great Assault, slaying another warrior who meant to take her as captive. Since that fateful day more than two years past, Rebecca had remained living with them with no desire to return to the colony and Makedewa had mooned over her like a love struck buffoon. Whatever damage had been done to her, however, appeared lasting, and the young woman seemed to care for nothing more than friendship.

“Find a gift for her while we visit town today. Something to make her smile,” he advised.

Makedewa shook his head.

“No. We have no time for such things.”

“Says who? I say we do,” Winn answered. He was willing to spare a few minutes in trade if it would make Makedewa happy. It would serve for the betterment of everyone to see some tension diminished between his brother and Rebecca, and if a simple trinket would make that happen, it was well worth the time lost.

“We shall find word of Benjamin and nothing more.”

“Ah, kemata tepahta!” Winn cursed, rolling his eyes skyward with a snort. Makedewa continued to stare straight ahead, ignoring his outburst.

“He does not look so fierce,” Makedewa commented, effectively changing the subject. Winn looked ahead to where Makedewa pointed.

Marcus rode beside Chetan, the two men seeming to speak in an easy rhythm as their ponies paced along. Winn wondered what they found in common to talk about, but then quickly purged the thought away. Why should he care for what the coward might speak of?

“Who says he is fierce?” Winn asked.

“Your wife said he killed Kweshkwesh with one blow of his axe,” Makedewa replied, raising his brows.

“I killed Kweshkwesh. Marcus killed his son. And it is called a bryntroll, it is different from the weapon we have. So he says.” Winn nodded to the small hand axe hanging from Makedewa’s belt. “One large blade on a long handle, with symbols carved into the iron. I know not what meaning.”

“It means Pale Feather is a fierce warrior,” Makedewa muttered.

Maybe it means he is a coward and liar, Winn thought, although he kept it to himself. He would not let his brother bait him into an argument, which Makedewa seemed to enjoy doing.

“Is that what Norse-men look like?”

Winn shrugged the question off, his eyes now focused on his father’s back. The stout bryntroll sat secured in the flat straps crossing his wide shoulders, over the white linen trade-shirt the women had given him. A heavy sword lay sheathed at his side, another weapon inlaid with intricate designs. Other than the shade of the tousled dark hair tied back with rawhide on his neck, Winn could see no resemblance between them. Perhaps they had similar height, and the breadth of their shoulders matched somewhat, but nothing more.

“He looks like only a man to me,” Winn said.

“Are the weapons from his future time? Did you ask Fire Heart?”

“No.”

“I will ask him.”

“Go then. Ask if you must,” Winn muttered.

Makedewa tapped his heels and urged the pony forward to meet the others. Chetan glanced back at Winn as Makedewa caught up, and Winn raised his chin a notch at the inquisition. They would reach town soon enough and all the foolishness would end.

The sooner they found the information Marcus needed, the sooner the man would be out of their lives. As Winn watched Marcus speak with his brothers, he thought perhaps Makedewa was right.

They had no time for such things.

Winn dropped down off his horse into the mud. Even with the dry summer air, the ground in James City remained sodden in places, especially in the heavily traveled areas like the town common. A straight sandy road cut the central market square in two, the narrow pathway through town littered with shallow ruts. A horse could be easily crippled if one did not pay close mind to the debris.

He grimaced at the stench as he tied his pony to a hitching post. It had been a month since he last visited the town, and he could see little had changed. The English still lived like pigs, growing their precious tobacco amidst hills of filth within their city palisades. He stepped out of the mud and went to join his companions.

In the two years since the Great Assault, the undressed log dwellings had been replaced by frame houses within the fort limits. The population had grown dense, with those who lived on the outskirts of the James City community drawing closer to town or moving within the palisades for protection. There was no doubt so many living in such close quarters contributed to the stench.

“Ye have a plan? Who to talk to?” Marcus asked. Winn glanced at his father while adjusting the knife at his waist. He wanted to take his musket as well, but thought better of it and left it behind, aware that the English soldiers always found a reason to confiscate such items from the Indians. Unlike some warriors, Winn would use whatever means necessary to fight the English, and if that meant using their weapons against them, then so be it.

“I know a man who will talk,” Winn replied.

He noticed the way people stared when they entered town, and he was sure Marcus observed it as well. A group of men gathered in the square glared openly at them, growing silent as they left their horses and set off further into town. At the end of the row, standing like a statue against the clear morning sky was the church. Recently rebuilt with wide double wooden doors, it housed the English who huddled there seeking comfort in their singular God. As Winn and the others walked down the street, women clutched their hats and the crowds parted.

Winn could see Marcus tense. He shook his head when Marcus placed his hand on the butt of his sword.

“They mean no trouble, Pale Feather,” Winn said.

His brothers looked up at his words. Marcus dropped his hand.

“Let’s get where we’re going, then,” Marcus muttered.

It was a short walk to the gunsmith shop. A small dwelling made of coarse cut logs, it was one of the original structures to the settlement. Thick smoke rushed out through a shaft on the thatch roof, and the air inside was uncomfortably close.

Makedewa and Chetan kept watch at the door as Winn entered the building. He did not need to ask his brothers to keep track of the dispersing Englishmen as they conducted their business.

John Jackson looked up from his seat at his table and immediately rose to greet them, his eyes wide and hopeful. He was a slight man, standing a head shorter than even Chetan, uncharacteristically refined compared to most of the other Englishmen. His lithe stature was most likely a gift from his French mother; his long, thin face unfortunately came from his father.

“Winn! Vous batard sournois! Que faites-vous ici!”

Winn grinned at the oath riddled welcome. He had known John Jackson long enough to expect nothing less than to be called foul names in lieu of a proper greeting.

“Oui, j'ai raté votre visage laid,” he replied as they grasped forearms. Winn was unpracticed, but his French was still passable.

“Miss my ugly face, eh? Then fog off, ye bloody whoreson,” John laughed. The gunsmith raised his chin in acknowledgement of Marcus, who stood behind Winn inside the cottage. “Who’s ye friend? And why do ye darken my door today?”

Winn watched as John wiped his hands on his leather apron.

“Kin of my wife,” Winn said quickly. He felt uneasy with the explanation, yet he could not describe Marcus in any other way. “I come to ask your help, friend. We look for Benjamin Dixon.”

John stopped his ministrations abruptly. One eye squinted shut, the other focused on Marcus, he straightened up.

“Ye dinna bring yer wife here, did ye? Ye puntain de batard–”

“No, salaud!” Winn barked, his patience at an end with the jibes. The older Frenchman had a foul mouth and a loose tongue. “You know that would be foolish. We want no trouble.”

“Ah, the townsfolk. They dinna forget the whole bloody mess, with her being accused of witchery and the like. There be no witness left to try her, but ye know folks remember.”

“I know this. I ask for what you know of Dixon, nothing more.”

The older man pursed his lips and turned his back on them. He opened a tall wooden cupboard stacked against the wall and fumbled with a drawer inside. After rifling through the contents for a moment, he produced a tiny satchel one might fit snugly into the palm of a large man.

“Governor Wyatt released him, oh, ‘bout a months hence. On account there was no man for witness against him, like yer red-headed squaw.”

Winn leaned over the table, his fingers gripping into the soft wood as he clenched his fists. He was nearing the end of his tolerance with the man’s gibes. Acquaintance or friend, whatever the Frenchman was, he would be speaking through broken teeth if he kept up his banter.

“Why did they keep him so long, if they meant to release him?” Marcus interrupted. “Do ye know where he went, or where he might be now?”

“What meaning have ye? He only showed up a month hence, as I told ye. Right turned himself in, that one did, so folks thought him gone barmy. The minister at Martin’s Hundred found him sleeping on the floor inside the church, daft as a loon. They took him here to stand trial, and that’s when ye Governor set him loose.”

Winn saw Marcus flex his grip over the handle of his sword. Winn gave him a quick shake of the head, relieved when Marcus lowered his hand.

“This helps us. Thank you,” Winn said to the gunsmith. He noticed a movement beyond John by the entrance to the side room. It was a young boy of about six or seven, with a mop of blond hair and huge round eyes staring at them, peeking curiously around the corner.

“Who is the boy?” Winn asked.

“Don’t ye know Old Morgan’s boy? He has no kin, none to see him fed, in any case. He’s a good lad. Pay him no heed.” The child ducked away at the sound of his name.

John sat down across from Winn, his eyes shifting back and forth between the men. He dropped the tiny satchel on the table between them.

“Ye know what it’s like to have yer kin stolen from ye. I want mine back, the same as ye. I’ll tell ye where Dixon went, if ye send my sister back with the next batch.” John pushed the bag toward Winn. “Ye still have that flintlock musket, I suppose? That’s my best powder, ye know they can hang me fer giving it to ye. Take it, and whatever else ye want. Just give me yer word ye’ll bring my sister home.”

Winn bit back a retort as he looked into the man’s pleading eyes. Yes, John was a sneaky fellow, but he had done no wrong to Winn and had helped him when he asked. Of course there was usually a price attached to his help, and Winn could not fault him for taking advantage in such circumstances. In this case, however, Winn would not be able to help him, and he was reluctant to disclose what he knew of John’s sister.

“John, your sister is treated fairly in Pamukey. She has come to no harm, I can tell you that,” Winn answered. He would not mention that John’s sister was the squaw of a Pamukey warrior, nor that in the two years since the Great Assault she had given birth to a son. It was assuredly more information than the Frenchman could tolerate.

“Then bring her back next. You’ve exchanged three women so far, why not my sister? If it’s guns, or food, tell me what ye ask, and I will give it,” John pleaded. Winn saw the rims of his eyes glisten as the man swiped the back of one hand over his face.

“It is not for me to choose. Governor Wyatt decides who we bargain for. You must speak to him for this. I am sorry,” Winn said quietly.

John reached over and put the satchel in Winn’s hand.

“Take it anyway. Just give me yer word she is safe, I see it as even exchange.”

“I give you my word. And what of Dixon, what do you know of him?”

“He went looking for your kin, that Nansemond, Pepamhu. Said something about searching fer the woman Finola. I think he sought the Indian as a tracker. Lord knows, Dixon could ne’er track to save his skin.”

Winn stood up. He dropped the gunpowder onto the table. As much as he needed it, he would not take it. He thanked the gunsmith for his trouble and left the cottage, Marcus trailing behind.

Marcus was quiet on the return home. Winn knew they did not find the answers he wanted, but he had enough to start the search so he considered it a day well spent. The sooner he could help Marcus find Benjamin, the sooner he would be out of their lives.

From the story John Jackson told, it seemed Benjamin was found lying senseless in the church at Martin’s Hundred. It was the same place Maggie and Finola had given him the Bloodstone and sent him back to his future time on the day of the Great Assault, the day the English referred to as a massacre.

Winn knew little of how the stones worked, only that the magic was dangerous, so he was not shocked to hear that something had gone wrong with his brother’s travel. Although his grandmother had tried to speak to him about the magic in his blood many times over the years, Winn had refused to hear her tales, denying any part of his white blood. He wondered exactly what part Finola played in all that had happened. She must have realized who Benjamin was, or perhaps she knew all along. Just looking at Marcus was like seeing an image of Benjamin, and Winn was certain his grandmother could not have mistaken it. Whatever secrets she held, she would account for them when he found her.

“The Pale Witch said you would return. She said on a night the stars fell from the sky, her son would come back to this time,” Winn said. He did not turn his head toward his father as they rode.

“She was a Seer. Our people feared her magic,” Marcus replied.

Winn nodded in agreement. “My uncle would not kill her, as he did the other Time Walkers. He feared her as well.”

“So where does she live? Do ye think Benjamin went searching for her?” Marcus asked.

“Yes. John Jackson said he searches for her. It makes sense that Benjamin would do so. He knows now he is a Time Walker, even if he is not very good at it,” Winn said, a grin tugging at his lips despite his annoyance. “My grandmother finds her own way. She refused to come live with us. She lives with a family outside James City, working at the trading post.”

“Ye don’t look out for her?” Marcus shot back, his voice rising. Winn snorted under his breath.

“When she has need, she makes it known. It has always been that way. She was banished when I was a boy, I did not truly know her until I lived with the English, and now…now she wishes to remain where she is. It is her decision.”

“How far is it?”

“Too far for a visit today. I will show you the way on the day you leave.”

Marcus said nothing, staring straight ahead as he rode. Winn wondered briefly if his father would search so faithfully for him, should the situation be reversed. He quickly dismissed the thought, his attention distracted as Chetan turned his horse in a tight circle and pointed ahead.

“Winkeohkwet! Look!” he shouted.

Over the tops of the evergreens, a cloud of black smoke wound up into the sky through the trees. It was coming from the same direction as their home.

They urged their horses into a gallop.

Maggie

Maggie pulled up the moonflower vine at the roots. Pretty, but damaging, the things grew rampant around the base of the corn stalks in a twist of blue and green buds. It was only a small garden plot, yet if it survived to maturity without being looted or burned, she would be grateful. One could only eat so much Tuckahoe.

She flicked her braid back over her shoulder with a quick flip of her chin and squinted up at the sky. It was another humid day in the Virginia sun, and she would be glad to see it end. Soon the men would be home, and they would enjoy a well-deserved meal together.

Rebecca sat cross legged on the ground between the rows, patiently showing Kwetii how to pull up weeds. Teyas worked alone nearby. Usually Winn’s sister was the most productive of the group and today was no exception. Teyas was accustomed to such work, and although Rebecca made honest effort, the Englishwoman was simply not cut out for such things. As Maggie watched the blond-haired girl play with her daughter, she wondered if Rebecca would ever find such happiness of her own. Even two years past the massacre, she still seemed fragile, like a broken bird. Perhaps she would never recover from the trauma.

“Whoop! Whoop!” Ahi Kekeleksu waved his arms overhead, swatting at the black crows swooping in to pick at the corn. He raced down the aisle away from the women, taking his job as scarecrow most seriously. Kwetii giggled at his antics, and Maggie smiled.

The boy suddenly slid to a stop at the end of the aisle. The corn was not mature grown yet, and as Maggie stood to her feet she could easily see over the waving silk tassels to the direction the boy looked. Her breath hitched at the sight.

“Rebecca, take Kwetii to the house,” Maggie ordered. Rebecca looked up from her game with a confused frown.

“Why? What’s the matter?” she asked.

There were two riders with scarlet lined coats opened and flapping loose in the breeze as they galloped toward the settlement. Soldiers dressed in such disarray meant one thing: deserters. And deserters were even more dangerous than the law-abiding English.

“Teyas, take them and go. Hide in the house, you can all fit in the root cellar.” Maggie took her sister’s hand. “Please, take the children and Rebecca. I’ll send them away,” she insisted.

Maggie looked at Rebecca, standing wide eyed with Kwetii on her hip. She pressed her lips hard to her daughter’s cheek and grabbed Rebecca by the chin.

“Do as I say. Go to the cellar and stay there until I come for you,” Maggie demanded. Rebecca began to cry, but she nodded through her tears.

“I will stay with you,” Teyas said.

“No, go! There’s a better chance they’ll listen to me then you, and you know it.”

“Sister–”

“Damn it, Teyas, please! You can keep the others safe. I’ll deal with the strangers. Ahi Kekeleksu! Take them! Go!”

Not yet a man, even Ahi Kekeleksu knew the danger they were in. The warriors had all left early that morning for town and would not arrive home until nightfall, and as the only man left among them he stepped up to protect them. He grabbed Rebecca’s hand and barked a command at Teyas, and Maggie watched them hurry back toward the cottage.

The riders approached from the north, and she stood as if a barrier between them and those she loved. A mixed group of Indians and white women was an invitation for trouble. Rebecca was not strong enough to fight, neither in spirit nor body. Kwetii was completely vulnerable. Ahi Kekeleksu was full of heart with courage too big for his adolescent body. And Teyas, as strong as she was, she was the only one who had any hope of saving the others if Maggie could not send the soldiers away. She let out the breath she’d been holding once they reached the cottage and were safely inside.

She thought she felt the ground tremble beneath her feet, yet it might have been only the pounding of her pulse as she faced the deserters. Appearing even more unkempt as they came into close view, she held her ground and refused to flinch. They would expect some fading delicate flower and they would be sorely disappointed.

“This yer place, Miss?” the first one barked, none too politely. It appeared they would not waste time with pleasantries. He was a sallow faced man, his skin jaundiced over a scurvy twisted smile, the typical appearance of many of the English who were bereft of essential foods in their diets. She wondered if they deserted due to starvation, or if they were just disloyal dimwits who thought the grass was greener elsewhere.

“Yes, it is. I’m afraid you missed the path to town. It’s back the way you came,” she said. Her voice was loud and did not waver, even as the two men exchanged surly grins. The second man had the sleeves of his dull maroon coat rolled up to his elbows, the front hanging open like a slack jawed caricature. She noticed all the brass buttons were missing, likely sold or traded, marking them as men who had truly abandoned their honor. No loyal English solider would present himself in such a way.

“Aye. We know the way,” the first man answered. They dismounted and the scurvy marked man walked toward her. She held her ground.

“Then take it. You have no business here.”

The first man laughed. His teeth were brown nubs jutting from his gums.

“Ye have some new corn here, I think we might relieve ye of it. Does that spark yer pleasure, Mistress?” he smirked. He plucked a young ear from the stalk and broke it in two, sniffing it with his bulbous nose.

“Take it then and go. We have nothing else for you,” she said. At her words the first man perked up. She bit the inside of her lower lip when he reached out to her, taking the end of her braid in his hand. He studied it, then directed his gaze down at her clothes, his muddy brown eyes lighting up as he considered her. She wore her cotton shift belted over a short buckskin skirt, typical to the Indians who traded with the English.

“Yer dressed like a squaw? Where’s yer people now, squaw?” he taunted, pulling down hard on her braid. She jerked backward and he released her hair, but he snatched her arm before she could get further away. She saw the flash of a flame and the scent of thick smoke filled her nostrils as the corn was set on fire. It ignited quickly, so fast that she could feel the lick of the heat on her skin.

“Leave off ‘er, Milt! We have no time fer this! I don’t need any savages following us!” The other man snapped. Milt apparently had other intentions.

“Unhand me unless you want to lose those fingers,” Maggie said, her words brave even as she felt hope of escaping trickle away. He raised one brow at her threat, and then struck her square in the cheek with his closed fist.

She crumpled to her knees as her head exploded in throbbing pain and her vision began to swirl. Oh, Jesus, she thought. Please let the others be safe.

The first man protested as his companion grabbed her by the hair, jerking her head backward until she cried out.

“Oh, a brave one, are ye?”

She tried to scramble backward but he shook her, his fingers tangled in her braid. Unwanted tears fell onto her cheeks as she choked back a sob, the skin of her knees rubbed raw in the stony earth. She fumbled for the butt of her knife and found it tucked in the strap at her waist.

When he tried to yank her to her feet she lunged with the knife, stabbing him in the right side of his groin. He screamed and bucked but she held on, twisting the knife deeper as blood began to squirt from the wound. The femoral vein, she thought. It could kill him quickly.

“She stabbed me! The whore sta–”

Milt’s words were cut off and he suddenly slumped down over her, his limp body pinning hers to the ground in a shower of pulsing blood and rancid odor. She pushed furtively at him, scrambling under the weight of his body, her blood soaked fingers slipping uselessly with the effort.

She heard the sounds of struggle yet could not see, familiar voices joining in with uttered threats and another sickening thud. The limp body was pushed off her and two firm hands pulled her up to a sitting position.

“Are you hurt?” Winn asked, shaking her by her shoulders when she did not answer. She stared blankly beyond him at the second man, felled by Chetan’s blade stuck in his temple.

Too much. It was all too much.

Death, danger, something at every turn. She had done nothing but mind her own business tending to her crop, yet somehow she sat bathed in a stranger’s blood and two men lay dead. Perhaps to Winn it was normal. To her, it was not.

“What are you doing out here? I told you to stay away from the fields!” he said through a clenched jaw. “Should I bind you when I leave, will that make you listen?”

She shoved away from her husband.

“I thought–”

“Let me see your wounds,” he growled.

“No,” she whispered. She pushed back with her heels and thrust away from him, away from the blood smeared over his chest, away from the gaping hole in the man’s neck where Winn had sliced his jugular as if gutting a pig. She swallowed down a moan and shrunk away as he reached for her, even as she knew she caused him grief.

Winn sat back on one knee and dropped his hand. She could hear her pulse pounding in her head, or maybe it was the impact of the blow she suffered, she did not know. All she knew right then was that she needed to make it all stop. She needed to get clean.

“Maggie?”

She shook her head and scrambled over to the creek bed, needing to get away from the snap of the flames as her crop burned higher. She crawled into the shallow water and closed her eyes as the cold stream flowed over her. The frigid water numbed her skin, a blessed, consuming sensation to block out the horror of reality.

She heard Winn speak softly to his brother, and the sound of his footsteps as Chetan took the path back to the cottage. She continued to let the water wash over her, sitting cross legged on the pebble flanked stream bed as she began to cry.

“My brave little Fire Heart,” he said, kneeling down beside her in the stream. She stared at her open palms, now faded pink as the current cleansed her skin. He slowly reached out to take her hands and when she did not resist he began to rub them clean.

She watched her husband through her clouded vision. His fingers were gentle upon her flesh, washing away the evidence, his hands firm and familiar on her body.

“I’m not brave,” she whispered.

He took her face into his hands, forcing her to look into his pained blue eyes. It was that which broke her, the dam of tears released by the strength of his touch, the certainty of his words a beacon to hold onto.

“Pishi, yes, you are,” he said softly in return. She allowed him to embrace her, trembling as he pressed her to his chest, her body shuddering with the effort of holding back her tears. He let her rage, as he had once promised he would, no move to stop her when she clutched his chest and hit him with closed fists to vent her despair.

“Why would they do such a thing? What is wrong with men in this time?” she asked, expecting no answer. After all, Winn was a man of his era, unique in many ways, but still a seventeenth century male. Could he ever truly understand how it felt to grow up in another time, then live constrained by centuries old mentality? As much as he tried to sympathize, she suspected it was something one would have to experience to truly appreciate.

“They were cowards, not men.”

She nodded and bent her head to his chest, relaxing her body into his. The pebbles beneath them in the streambed shifted with the weight of their joined bodies and their wet clothes stuck to their skin. They watched in silence as the fire consumed the last of the corn. It was a small crop and it would be finished burning soon.

“I’m ready. We can go now,” she whispered.

They walked beside each other on the path to the cottage, close yet not touching, no further words spoken between them.

Makedewa

Makedewa urged his pony into a gallop toward the cottage, the thick smoke from the flaming corn field burning his eyes. He knew Winn and Chetan had found Maggie, yet he saw no sign of the others. Teyas, the children…or Rebecca.

Rebecca. He would give anything to see a flash of her bright yellow curls, even if she were running away from him as she usually did. In the two years since he had saved her from the Great Assault it was a dance they lived, tenuous friends, yet he knew she still regarded him with suspicion. He did not blame her for her fears as she was wary of all men, and he was, of course, only a man. As his eyes scanned the cottage for any sign of movement, he felt a pang in his chest when there was nothing. Where were they?

“I’ll check the barn,” Marcus called out.

“I’ll see to the house,” Makedewa agreed. He dismounted and left his pony ground-tied. At the door to the cottage he paused, his palm sweating as he placed it against the door. It was ajar.

Silence greeted him. The hearth was cool with not even a wisp of smoke in the ashes, and that meant they had been out in the fields most of the day. One of the shutters, blown loose from its latch, banged against the window with each pass of the faint breeze.

Next to the cold hearth was a red ribbon. As he bent slowly down to retrieve it his hand trembled. It belonged to Rebecca. He had given it to her when they moved to the head right property, a gift he had traded his own copper bands for. He clenched the ribbon in his fist and briefly closed his eyes. As he stood up his eye caught something out of place. The latch to the root cellar stood askew, the rusted ring perched outward instead of flush to the floor. He covered the space in one stride and wrenched the trapdoor open, jumping back when a barrage of screams greeted him.

“It is only me!” he hollered, his voice hoarse as he looked down at them. Teyas clutched Kwetii with a hand over the child’s mouth, and Ahi Kekeleksu stood with his hands planted on his hips in front of Rebecca. The boy abandoned his warrior stance immediately at the sight of Makedewa, and they climbed out of the cellar as Kwetii burst into a fit of screams.

Teyas pecked his cheek with tearful thanks, but it was Rebecca who held his gaze. She was covered in dust from the cellar, her cheeks stained with tears, yet her pale eyes bespoke something he had never seen in her before. When she cleared the last step and threw herself into his arms, he held his hands wide, afraid to touch her. He could feel her heart pounding against his chest and the tremble of her body as she cried. Her fingers clutched his skin almost painfully and it was all he could do to soothe her as he slowly placed his hands around her back. He was not the sort of man to comfort a woman, and in truth he did not know how. Yet for her, he wanted to try.

“Is Maggie safe?” she asked, her face buried in his shoulder. He nodded, words slow to form as he struggled to speak. She was filthy, but the brush of her soft hair on his skin and the scent of her sweet soap caused him to tremble as well. The last time he had held her so close she had been wounded and he had carried her into the cave. In the time since then he had ached with longing to hold her again, never truly believing it would ever happen.

“Winn and Chetan see to her. She lives,” he murmured, his voice strained.

“Did they hurt her?” she whispered. He suspected her meaning, and although he did not know the answer for certain, he shook his head.

“No. She’s fine,” he lied.

Kwetii wailed louder. Teyas bounced the child on her hip and pointed out the window.

“See? There they are, little one, it is fine now,” Teyas said.

Marcus and Chetan walked toward the house, and they could see Winn and Maggie on the trail as well. Ahi Kekeleksu raced out to meet them, greeting their return with a string of uttered war cries. The intent of the boy’s screams meant victory, a hollow utterance in the face of what might have happened.

Rebecca suddenly stiffened and looked up at him, then ducked her chin and backed away. He knew it might be a mistake but he took the chance, catching her fingertips in his hand as she tried to flee. He saw the panic there in her face, her sweet features creased with confusion, but she did not pull away. He opened his other hand where he clutched the red ribbon.

“Here,” he said. He reached around her shoulders, taking care not to touch her further as he tied her hair back at the nape. How he wished to run his hands over her face, to feel her heart beat against his once more. He saw the pulse throbbing below her jaw and the way her eyes widened, and he dropped his hands.

“Go. See Maggie,” he grunted.

She ran out of the cottage, her skirt flapping behind her as she followed Teyas to the others.

Maggie

The sweet burning scent of pepper and fresh boiled meat made Maggie’s stomach ache as she put a spoonful of broth to her lips. It tasted good and would feed them all well later that day. Although she used the last of their precious spice to enhance the flavor of the small amount of venison, it had to be used up. They simply would not have space to take everything with them on their journey south. At least if she used up their meager supply of luxuries, it would not feel so wasteful leaving them behind to scavengers.

The others left her alone most of the morning. Teyas knew her well, and knew when she needed time for reflection. Maggie was accustomed to handling events in stride. Killing, maiming, assault–just another part of living in the time she had chosen as her own. Yes, she had grown adept at dealing with it all, yet sometimes she still needed a bit of space for her own thoughts.

Winn obviously had no such compulsion. She looked up as he entered the cabin. Thankfully, he was alone.

“Is Kwetii with Teyas?” she asked. He dropped his knife onto the table, making a small pile of weapons when he added his bow.

“Yes. They help break down the yehakins.”

“Oh,” she answered.

She bit her lower lip, uncaring of the sting, needing the pinch of reality to bring her back to her senses. Winn had decided they were leaving and once he made his declaration there was no arguing with him. He no longer held the title of War Chief, long lost since his village disbanded after the massacre, yet his every word was still viewed as law by his family. She would not presume to know everything of the ways of his world, but she could not sit silent without voicing her concerns.

“Can’t we wait? At least until spring?”

He sat down on the bench and leaned back against the table. She handed him a pewter mug filled with cold water which he placed to his lips, watching her over the rim as she fidgeted. She crossed her arms over her chest, her foot tapping nervously on the floorboards.

“We must leave now to settle before winter. You know this,” he replied. “I need to see you settled, so I can bring the Paspahegh to safety as well.”

“You’ll have them settle with us?” she asked. There were a dozen odd Paspahegh left that Winn worried about, struggling to remain independent of the conflicts with the settlers. The group had refused to settle with Maggie’s family so close to the English, so leaving their home was meant to ease all their lives. Joining with a larger village would be beneficial to them all.

“If they will. Why do you worry on this?”

“I just wish we could stay in one place, that’s all.”

She pressed the flat of her palm to her aching belly. Her appetite had been erratic since weaning Kwetii, only recently returning over the last few weeks. Although she loved the thought of another child, the reality of enduring another birth when their lives were so uncertain made her afraid. Even if they tried, she was unsure if she were even capable. Her weight had dropped as their food supply dwindled and her menses only came sporadically. They were suffering nearly as much as the English when it came to food. Winn was right; they needed to move on if they were to survive.

He took her hand and pulled her to sit on his lap.

“I think you will like the Nansemond. I have many friends among their people.”

She settled against his chest.

“Will you still help your uncle?”

He sighed.

“Yes.”

She wanted to argue, but held her tongue. Winn believed remaining loyal to his uncle helped keep them safe. As emissary to the English, he served as a translator and negotiator when either side had need of such. Tensions were past breaking with the English, and she had to admit Winn knew what he was doing by remaining cordial with both sides. Winn tried to limit the dealings as much as possible yet the connection gave him standing in both communities and generally kept them safe from harm, at least most of the time. Incidents like the interaction with the deserters were something that could be neither predicted nor avoided.

“Will it take us long to get there?” she asked.

“If we leave with the sunrise, we should find them by nightfall on the third day. Perhaps more, if the women tire and we must stop.” The corner of his lip turned up in a sly grin. “Your bladder is the size of a walnut, so you tell me.”

She poked him in the ribs as she giggled.

“Only from having your daughter!”

His hand slipped down over her belly as he laughed, one eyebrow raised slightly in question. She shook her head.

“No, it was nothing,” she said softly. She knew he questioned her diminished appetite and occasional bouts of nausea over the last week, but she was certain it was nothing more than weight loss and hunger pangs. Discussing such things as the arrival of her period was still a taboo subject for her, so she was glad when he took her word for it. There was no little Winn brewing in her womb.

“Oh. We must try harder, then, ntehem,” he said. His voice was low and throaty, his breath against her neck sending a shiver down her back. He kissed her ear very softly, his hand caressing the base of her spine as he held her close. It was easy to forget everything when he touched her. His fingers pressed into her flesh, branding her with the magic of his touch, as his lips brushed along her jaw where her pulse beat madly. His heartbeat throbbed under the palm of her hand, steady and sure, her anchor to reality as it all seemed to explode around them.

She closed her eyes and sighed at the comfort of his touch. His blue eyes gleamed in the dim light.

“How you distract me, wife,” he murmured. She smiled.

“I didn’t do anything,” she whispered.

“No?”

He pulled her slowly down to sit on his lap.

“You’re the one bothering me, warrior.”

“Does this bother you?” he grinned.

“Yes,” she choked as he placed a soft kiss to the base of her throat. She glanced at the door. It was still closed, but she could hear voices nearby.

He nodded toward the back room, and she eagerly followed him. The respite was not theirs to be had, however. Before they reached the privacy of closed quarters, the door swung open and Teyas entered, followed by Marcus and Rebecca. Kwetii squealed from where she sat perched on Rebecca’s hip, launching into her own series of demands.

“Momma! Uppy! Uppy!”

Maggie took her daughter from Rebecca. She hid her flushed face against Kwetii and swung her around, causing the child to scream with laughter. Winn made a disjointed grunting sound, looking distinctly uncomfortable as he picked up his discarded weapons from the table and the others filed into the cottage. He kissed Kwetii on her head, and then his lips brushed Maggie’s ear as they parted.

“Later, you are mine,” he whispered. She smiled.

Teyas had a sharp eye and Maggie saw her nudge Winn as he passed.

“Interrupting something, brother?” Teyas asked.

“You have work to do,” he grumbled. “We leave in the morning.”

Maggie and Teyas exchanged grins as Winn left the cottage.

“He’s right,” Maggie agreed. “We all have a lot of work to do.”

Teyas and Rebecca went up to the loft, talking of what to do with the furniture they had grown fond of. Growing up as a Paspahegh, Teyas was well accustomed to moving several times a year, even more if necessary. Yet Rebecca in particular was having a difficult time with the idea of moving. Maggie wondered if she had second thoughts about her decision to stay with them instead of returning to the English.

“You rascal, stop squirming!” Maggie said.

She adjusted her wiggling child and tried to keep her pinned on her hip, but when Kwetii decided she wanted down, she would not relent. Maggie juggled the wooden ladle while trying to subdue her daughter, surprised when Marcus took the child from her.

“Here, I’ll watch her. She’s a handful enough without ye tending the food,” he said. He hefted Kwetii up against his shoulder and Maggie smiled when the toddler reached up and grabbed at his beard.

“She’s never seen facial hair on a man. I’m sure she’ll lose interest soon.”

“Oh? I suppose she wouldna, living out here with ye.”

Maggie turned back to the kettle, leaving them to their own devices. She heard Marcus clear his throat.

“We haven’t had much time to talk, with the others always about.”

She nodded, her back still turned to him. His voice betrayed his angst, his thick accent strained and his words stilted.

“I know ye married Benjamin, I found record of it. Will ye tell me, or leave me guessing what happened?”

“Things are different in this time,” she said quietly.

“I know that very well.”

“Winn was shot in front of my eyes, I thought he was dead. I didn’t know what to do.” She folded her hands and twisted her fingers together against her skirt as she turned to face him. “There was a man named Thomas Martin who claimed I was his niece, I suppose he did it for the bride price he would get when he settled a marriage contract. I had nowhere else to go.”

“Surely the Paspahegh would have helped ye.”

“I was carrying Kwetii. I thought they blamed me for Winn’s death. I had no way to reach them, and no means to take care of myself. Benjamin offered his protection, and I took it.”

Kwetii reached for her, and Maggie pulled her into her arms. The toddler stuck her thumb in her mouth and rested her head on her shoulder. Maggie rocked slowly to soothe the child as Marcus gazed at her with a frown. She could see the crease across his forehead and the way his jaw tightened as he considered her words. She had only given him the bare bones of the story. What would he think of her if she told him all of it?

“There’s no sin in such a thing, if that’s what yer asking,” he finally said. She swallowed hard.

“I didn’t know who he was until the day we gave him the Bloodstone. I thought we sent him home…to you,” she whispered, dipping her chin down into her daughter’s hair. There was so much she wanted to say to him, this gentle hulk of a man who had always watched over her. Yet seeing his eyes glazed with emotion and knowing her own tears were ready to surge, she held back the bulk of the truth until her breathing slowed.

“So there’s no hope for peace between Benjamin and Winn, then, is there?”

“You can’t fault Winn for that. They were friends before this, like brothers…” she paused, the statement sounding quite foolish.

“Aye, maybe. A woman has a way of changing things between friends. Even brothers.”

Marcus turned to the window. She followed behind him, swaying gently to ease Kwetii to sleep. Through the glass, she could see the yard where Makedewa stood with Rebecca, engaged in some sort of awkward discussion. She leaned in next to Marcus to get a closer look.

“It seems like you hate the Paspahegh. Your son is part of them,” she said quietly.

“Ye think I don’t know that? No, I don’t hate them. I hate the bloody foolish Weroance who caused all this grief. Without an old man’s senseless vision, none of this would have happened. We’re the last of our people because of him, Maggie. We’re what is left of the Blooded Ones.”

“Finola used that term once. What does it mean?”

“It’s from old magic. Blooded Ones are born with the power. It must be in yer blood, to use the stone. There were few of us even before Opechancanough wanted us all dead. He hunted them down, he ended our people. They’re all gone, except for us.”

“Us?” she asked.

“You, me. Benjamin and Winn. Your little one. That’s why I took your mother to the future. It was my duty to protect the last of our most powerful blood, that which flows in yer veins. You know nothing of what magic lies in your blood.”

“I think I know something of it,” she murmured.

She held her hand out, palm side up. The scar had faded to a silver-white hue, but the knotted design was still as clear as the day the Bloodstone had burned it into her flesh as it thrust her back through time.

“I didn’t have this until I came here. What really happened to my parents? Did you and Granddad lie about them, too?” she asked.

His mouth tensed tight at her question and his brows dipped down in a deep crease.

“They’re gone like the rest.” He reached inside his trade shirt and pulled out his Bloodstone. It was wrapped in tarnished copper, like Winn’s, and hanging from a rawhide cord from his neck. “I didn’t know if I could find ye and Benjamin, or if the Bloodstone would take my life when I traveled. It’s been a long time since I worked the magic. But I had to try. Yer all that’s left that matters to me.”

His shoulders relaxed and he let out a sigh. He let the Bloodstone pendant drop back down against his chest.

“You have Winn now, as well,” she said softly. “Will you stay here with us, once you find Benjamin?”

“It’s a one-way ticket, lamb. I won’t risk it again. Yes, I am here to stay.”

He kissed Kwetii softly before he left to join the men, leaving her watching them from the window.

Makedewa

Makedewa threw an armful of sweet alfalfa grass to the ponies. He was restless, so he went to tend the horses and gather the livestock close to the houses. The animals now grazed loose inside the large barn, a remnant left over from the previous occupant of the farm. He did not care for the enclosed structure yet he had to admit it was a sensible method of keeping the horses ready at a quick notice. With the attack by the deserters, it was more important than ever to be ready for anything. As he watched the horses, he heard footsteps on the packed clay path and raised his head. Rebecca peered around the barn door. At the sight of her round flushed face and curious stare, he felt his throat constrict.

“Are ye occupied, Makedewa? I willna bother ye if so,” she said softly.

Makedewa could utter nothing sensible, and all that came out was a half-snort, half-grunt as he shrugged.

“No, you are no bother to me,” he said with a frown. Rebecca ducked her chin and looked at her own clenched hands at the callous response. “Stay if you wish.”

“Are ye sure?”

“I said so, did I not?” he asked, his tone more irritated than he intended. “I meant–I–are you well, I mean?” he stammered.

She nodded and looked up at him, meeting his gaze for a fleeting moment, her corkscrew curls bouncing against her shoulders.

“I am well. It was only a fright for us hiding in the cellar. I worry for dear Maggie, though, she seems affected,” she murmured.

“Maggie has the heart of a brave, ease your mind of that,” Makedewa replied. Rebecca left the doorway and stepped into the barn, and he took an equal step backward. He did not wish to scare her off. In his haste to give her a wide berth, he knocked a pitchfork over and stumbled trying to catch it, and Rebecca leapt at it as well. They ended up each holding onto the tool, kneeling on the ground, laughing at each other.

“Makedewa?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

“Would ye teach me to–to shoot your bow? Or use thy knife? I think I should know more of such things, living among ye.”

“If you wish,” he muttered. “Tomorrow. I will teach you tomorrow.”

She smiled, and they both stood up.

“Thank ye. If you wish, I will teach you to read. I–I used to teach the children…once.”

Makedewa nodded without looking at her.

“A fair trade. You may teach me.”

She turned quickly, giving him a brief smile and an awkward nod before she walked back to the cottage.

Makedewa watched her go. It had been a long two years waiting for her to smile on him, and he would do anything to see it again. He would not mention he was already quite fluent in reading English.

Rebecca

Rebecca decided it was time. For too long she had pushed his friendship away, yet still he persisted with silent patience. If there was ever a man she could trust, surely it was the quiet warrior who she shared a home with. She was tired of feeling like a burden to their mismatched family, the only woman among them who could not wield a weapon or contribute in a useful way. Yes, she cooked and cared for the children, but seeing the way Maggie and Winn interacted made her long for more. Her English life was long gone, and as Maggie had been telling her for months, there was much more to life than living in the past.

She lifted her skirts above her ankles as she made way through the tall grass. Makedewa was waiting in the field, where he had hung a hide against a wide tree trunk to take aim at. She watched him as she approached, noting with a flush of heat to her face how his skin glistened over his shoulders as he drew back the bow string, his arms flexed in readiness. He lowered the bow when he noticed her approach.

“The wind is quiet today. A good day to learn,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. She glanced up at the bright sky.

“It’s beautiful out today, surely,” she agreed. She smiled but he scowled, and suddenly her brave intention flew away. Had she already done something to annoy him? Sometimes it seemed her very presence irritated him, and her hopes for the day dimmed.

“Turn around,” he snapped. She did so without question, her breath a sharp intake when he untied the ribbon from her hair. He paused for a long moment, and then twisted her hair into a knot at her nape, securing it with a tug of the ribbon more toward her left shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. She turned to face him, perplexed at the way his eyes softened and his grimace lightened.

“For what?”

“I should have thought–my hair, I mean,” she said.

“You know nothing of how to shoot. Be sorry for naught,” he mumbled. “That is why my scalp is shaved here, so that the arrow does not get caught.” He pointed to the swatch of crescent shaped skin over his right ear, the skin smooth of any offending hair. The rest of his black mane fell loose down his back, which was unusual for him since he most often wore it knotted or in a braid. She thought he looked softer somehow with it down, as if his body had relaxed with the easy motion. Even the corner of his mouth appeared to twitch as if he wanted to smile but held back.

He thrust a smaller bow into her hands, holding an arrow in his fist as he stepped away. He picked up his own larger bow and demonstrated how to pull back on the string.

“Try this first, before I give you the arrow. Make your arm straight. Pull your hand back to your nose.”

She did so, plucking the string, which snapped back with a deep twang. She liked the feel of the curved wood in her hand and a smile spread over her lips as she glanced at Makedewa. He had dropped his bow and stood watching her, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Good. Here, now try this.”

He leaned across her and placed the notched end of the arrow on the string, grunting his approval when she balanced it on top of her other outstretched fist. When he stepped away, she drew the string but the arrow faltered, dipping to the side. She made several attempts to steady the thing before he would assist her, stepping to her side again. As much as she wanted to shoot the blasted arrow, his presence beside her led to complete distraction. Like the day he pulled her from the root cellar and held her in his arms, she could smell the scent of sweat on his skin and feel the warmth of his breath on her neck. Her throat tightened when he placed his hand over hers to steady the arrow and he slowly circled her shoulders with his other arm.

“Hold tight, here. Looser, here,” he said. She relaxed the fingers gripping the string and smiled when it worked. The arrow drifted back to meet the bow.

“Let go,” he murmured. She released her fingers and the arrow took flight, striking the edge of the target flap to lodge into the bark. She squealed with delight.

“Did ye see that? I did it! I hit the tree!” she laughed, swirling around in her excitement. He was still very close with his hand resting on her waist, but she did not mind it. In fact, it felt quite nice, and he had the making of a grin on his lips. For a man who rarely smiled, when his deep dark eyes softened and he relaxed, he looked nearly attractive.

“Good shot. Try again,” he agreed. He bent abruptly to pick up his own bow, standing beside her to shoot at the target. They practiced like that until the target was full of holes and the tree bark was shredded beneath the hide. Makedewa gave her occasional instruction but otherwise just supervised as she found her own technique, and by the end of the afternoon, she was quite pleased to be hitting the hide on every shot.

Her fingers ached and there were blisters on her thumb when she finally sat down beside him where he had taken a break, lying on the soft moss beneath another tree. He offered her a drink from his flask, which she took, watching as he leaned back onto his elbows and stretched out.

“The bow I use is much smaller than yours. Should I try the one ye use?” she commented.

“Keep the small one. It fits your hand, as it should. I made it for you.”

She smiled. It was strange to be alone with him, sitting in a field surrounded by nothingness. She thought briefly of her mother, and wondered what the woman would have thought of such a thing. Although she sometimes missed her parents, she did not miss the strict life they lived, with the constant threat of damnation forever held over her head. Learning to live with the Indians and accepting that she was no harlot for sharing the afternoon with a man? Well, those were things she still needed to resolve for herself.

His eyes closed to the sun overhead. As she looked down at him, sipping from his flask, she felt a tugging down deep in her belly. It was an unfamiliar sensation but it possessed her, and suddenly her hand moved as if directed by a devil and slid onto his chest. His body stiffened at her touch, the rise of his chest trapped in place, and he opened his eyes as he swallowed. He said nothing, his soft brown eyes fixed on hers as she slowly drew her hand away. He caught her fingers in his own and placed her hand flat against his heart.

“I–I’m sorry,” she stammered.

“I am not,” he replied, keeping her palm under his, his eyes still focused on hers. She felt the thud of his heart under her hand and saw the heat in his gaze pulling her closer. For once, she felt no panic. The only thing she knew was that she wanted to be closer to him, to explore something beyond their tenuous friendship. She had no experience with men, but she suspected he felt the same way underneath his angry facade.

“I never see ye smile, Makedewa,” she whispered.

“I smile…at times,” he said.

“Even now ye look angry. Do I anger ye?” she asked.

“It is not anger you see, I promise you.”

She nearly drew away when his hand slid up to cup her face, but instead she turned her cheek into his hand and closed her eyes. He moved swiftly then, sitting up beside her and taking her into his arms. She kept her eyes tightly closed, the feel of his touch burning her skin with rivulets of anticipation. Then his soft lips were on hers, gently covering her trembling mouth, the scent of his leather and sweat sending her senses into a spiral. Searching yet restrained, holding her face so tenderly as if she might crumble, his kiss led her closer into his embrace. When he pulled away he placed his cheek against hers and she could feel he struggled to slow his breathing the same as she.

“Was that pleasing to ye?” she asked, at loss to say anything meaningful.

“You please me quite well,” he replied, his voice low and measured. She felt the blush rise to her cheeks, and dipped her head to avoid his heated stare.

“I have never kissed a man,” she said softly. She did not know why she felt the need to confess it to him, but suddenly she felt as if her heart was flayed open and she wished to share all the things she had kept buried for so long. He would not allow her to look away, taking her chin in his fingers and tilting it back upward.

“Then I thank you for that honor,” he whispered. His hand caressed the small of her back as he captured her gaze. “I would be the only man to ever have that honor, if you would have me. I want you for my wife, Rebecca.”

She did not realize she cried until he kissed her tears away, and when he covered her mouth again with his own she tasted the salt of her tears between them.

“Ye do not want me,” she said quietly, as he tried to kiss away her protests. She tried to stem the panic as their embrace became more heated, loving his gentle hands on her flesh, yet fighting the surge of buried memories all the same.

“I do. I have always wanted you,” he murmured.

“How could ye, when ye know my shame?” she insisted. He held her face in his hands and stared into her eyes, his face etched as if in pain.

“You bear no shame for what was done to you,” he whispered, his voice fierce and tense.

“But I am no maid,” she protested.

“You are to me,” he replied.

She placed her hand on his face and then kissed him softly.

“Why do ye act so fearful, when ye have such a kind heart?”

He sighed and made the agitated half growl, half snort the men often uttered.

“There is no kindness here, chulentet,” he murmured. “Perhaps a bit for you, that is all, my little bird.”

She smiled. They both looked up at the sound of voices. Ahi Kekeleksu had found them, calling them to the late day meal. It was an unwelcome distraction but they drew apart nonetheless. They gathered the bows and made their way back to the cottage, and for the first time in what seemed ages her heart soared with pleasure at the knowledge Makedewa watched her every move.

Maggie

Traveling with their party was by no means speedy, as Winn had predicted. After three longs days of being astride a horse she was ready to wash the sweat from her skin and catch a few hours of rest. When her feet finally hit the ground again her legs felt like jelly and she suspected she walked like an old cowboy, bowlegged and bedraggled to boot.

“The village is not far from here. We should reach it in the morning,” Winn assured her when they stopped. As she helped Teyas start a fire while the men tended the horses, she took a look around. The forest was filled with dense growing cypress, the ancient trees more common the deeper they traveled inland. She had never been so far away from the banks of the streams they typically lived near, so although she expected the different terrain it still made her uneasy. The soil was less sandy than the lowlands, and the men were pleased to find small game more plentiful for hunting. Winn was right. Their lives would be better the further they lived from the English towns.

Makedewa resumed teaching Rebecca how to shoot the bow, and Maggie settled down by the fire to watch them. Exhausted from the travel, Kwetii slept curled into a ball on the furs beside her, with her tiny thumb pressed up against the roof of her gaping mouth as she gently snored. Maggie brushed the child’s dark hair off her heart-shaped face with a smile.

Winn sat down beside her while the other men stood watching the lesson. He offered her a sip from his flask that she gladly took. It was the last of the sack Makedewa had won playing dice and it left a pleasant burning warmth in her belly as it settled.

“Is Rebecca well?” he asked. He sat resting his arm on one bent knee, watching his brother. Maggie raised an eyebrow.

“Why do you ask? She’s fine, as far as I know.” She noticed the subtle nuzzle Makedewa gave Rebecca when he leaned close in his instruction, and the way Rebecca leaned into him with a smile. Apparently, they were getting on quite fine.

“I thought she lost her sense. I never thought to see her use a weapon.”

Maggie rolled her eyes.

“Oh, yeah, why not? She’s as capable as anyone else is. She just needs a little confidence,” Maggie replied. “Rebecca, strike quickly when you mean to kill a man! A warrior once told me that!” she called out. Winn chuckled.

“Leave them be, woman,” he grinned.

“Us girls need to stick together.”

“No doubt.”

She snuck a sly glance at his profile. Sculpted and strong, with bright blue eyes set against thick brows, he still made her breath hitch when he looked at her. The way he cocked an eyebrow at her, or twisted the corner of his lip in that secret boyish grin, it was enough to render her senseless, even after all they had been through. Would it always be so between them?

She reached for his hand and he smiled, clasping it firmly in his own. He rubbed the base of her wrist with his thumb, a firm yet gentle pressure, sending a shock of goose bumps over her skin. She felt the warmth spread at the contact, and a flush rose to her cheeks.

Yes. It would never change. He would always be a flame in her darkness, searing her with his heat. As if he sensed her thoughts, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the scar upon her palm.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“For what, ntehem?”

“For tending the fields that day. I didn’t think any harm of it.”

He squeezed her hand.

“You are no obedient wife. I know that well.” He ran his fingers up the length of her arm and pressed a gentle kiss to her bared shoulder, where he rested his lips for a moment. “There are things I fear losing in this life now. Before you, I feared nothing.”

His words were gentle, considering the circumstances. It was not the first time they had such conflict. Despite her desire to behave like a proper wife, it was an endless struggle to subdue what was left of the twenty-first century woman inside her. At times she feared the way their pasts pulled them apart, yet she knew it was their differences that also bound them together.

She stiffened and sat up as he pulled abruptly away. She saw them at the same time as he did, the strangers standing at the edge of the clearing. Two men, both tall, both fair skinned, with full beards and long, unruly hair.

Rebecca dropped the bow when Makedewa pushed her behind him, and Teyas grabbed her hand. Chetan crouched, hand on his knife, and Marcus unsheathed the axe on his back. The sound of metal sliding from the sheath screamed in the silence, followed by the clang of weapons revealed by the newcomers. Other than drawing weapons, the men remained still as they inspected each other.

Winn slowly stood, his eyes never wavering from them. Marcus stepped forward in front of the others, standing between all of them and the intruders.

“Hvata bak, ofugr,” one said, taking a step toward them. He was taller than the first but younger, nearly as broad as Marcus was through the shoulders. His hair was a russet gold hue, hanging thick down his back with a series of tiny braids edging his scalp. Crisscrossed over his chest he wore flat leather straps, which secured several weapons including a knife. The handle of a sword protruded over his shoulder from where it was secured to his back. She did not recognize the language he spoke, yet she suspected Marcus did by the way his eyes widened and his jaw dropped.

“Go back where you came from. You are not welcome here,” the stranger said in stilted English.

There was a rustle from the woods beyond the clearing and suddenly a half-dozen more men came forward. All attired in a similar manner, every man appeared ready to fight.

“Sa er tala? Show me who commands ye,” Marcus replied, his arms flexed with gripping the sword. Maggie gasped when Winn moved to stand beside Marcus. His knife was drawn, his muscles tensed, his body coiled like a spring as he shielded them from the intruders. Makedewa and Chetan flanked them.

An older man stepped forward. His russet hair was similar to the first, his beard longer and streaked with scattered grey. He put up his hand and motioned to the younger man, who immediately sheathed his weapon.

“Dagr?” the older man said. Marcus did not waver when he moved closer, his stark blue eyes widening. Marcus dropped his hand to his side.

“Erich?” Marcus replied.

The man called Erich suddenly reached out and clasped both hands around the one arm Marcus extended. They stared into each other’s faces for a brief moment without words, and then the stranger dropped down on one knee before Marcus and Winn.

His deep voice was strangled yet loud when he spoke.

“Chief Dagr has finally returned to us! Thank the Gods for his safe passage! Long life to Chief Dagr!”

Maggie let out the breath she held as the strangers fell to their knees, the sounds of their reverence a growing murmur which rolled through them as a gathering roar.

“Long life to Chief Dagr! Chief Dagr!” they shouted. She saw Winn take a step back and look to his brothers, who were staring at the kneeling men in wonder.

She had never seen Marcus so unsettled. His back straightened and his eyes swept over the men before him. Biceps tensed, the veins standing out like a web over his skin, she watched him as he spoke.

“Rise. Stand up, ye needn’t kneel to me,” Marcus said, his voice strained and low. The man called Erich stood with a grin spreading across his face. The others remained bent in deference.

“Ach, no, ye never did wish to be Chief. But Chief ye are, and thank Odin you’ve returned to us. You’ve come back from Valhalla, yet you’re no spirit.”

“Nay, no spirit. Just a man,” Marcus mumbled. “I thought you had taken the others and left for Vinland, Erich. Or worse—that you did not survive the attack.”

“Then you are just in time. We near gave up on seeing you again as well, my friend.”

Maggie watched as the men clasped arms again.

“This is Winkeohkwet. My son,” Marcus said. Erich made a half bow, his head lowered in respect to Winn. “And his family. I–”

“By the Gods! Esa?” Erich whispered. The color drained from his face as he looked to Maggie. She stayed kneeling on the ground next her sleeping daughter, unwilling to risk waking the child in the midst of such confusion. She had no idea who the men were or what was going on, and until her husband made indication it was safe she would not leave the child. Erich started to approach her, and Winn immediately stepped between them with his knife drawn. Makedewa gripped his knife and Chetan moved closer to Maggie at Winn’s motion.

“Please,” Erich said. “I mean no harm.” He slowly placed his sword on the ground and then held up both hands extended in a gesture of submission to Winn. Marcus put a hand on Winn’s shoulder. After a terse exchange in Paspahegh between the brothers, they lowered their weapons.

“He willna harm them. He’s kin to her,” Marcus said. Maggie’s head snapped up. Kin to her? She had no family, other than the loved ones she shared with Winn. The sting of realization of yet another betrayal by Marcus was only dampened by her curiosity. Who was the massive beast of a man staring at her?

“What is yer name, astin min?” he asked. He knelt beside her with his hand extended. She did not flinch when he gently touched her cheek with his calloused fingertips, too entranced by his deep jade eyes to move. It had been a long time since she had seen her own eyes in a mirror, yet she knew the ones staring at her mimicked her own.

“Maggie. Maggie McMillan,” she said softly. His eyes widened and his lips parted.

“Maggie MacMhaolian. Aye, of course. And this wee miting by yer side, she be yer child?”

She nodded. “Winn’s daughter and mine. Who are you?”

“I am Erich MacMhaolian. Thank ye, my lord,” he said, bowing his head when Marcus placed a hand on his shoulder. “My greatest thanks for keeping her safe.”

“Ye would do no less, in my stead,” Marcus answered.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Yer uncle. Erich is brother to yer mother,” Marcus said.

It was fortunate she chose to remain seated, for if not, she was certain she would have fallen on the ground.

“I thought my family was gone,” she replied, glancing up at Marcus, who had the good sense to grimace at her accusation and bow his head.

“Aye, I was dead to ye, as far as a man in the past would be. We hoped to have ye returned to us one day, but it’s been so long…one never returns to a time once lived, even with the magic of the Blooded Ones. I fear ye were lost to us, as were yer mother and my father.”

“My mother?”

“And what of my sister, my lord?” Erich said to Marcus, although his eyes remained still fastened on her as if he feared she would disappear.

“I’m sorry. She’s gone, and Malcolm as well. We honored our vow. Malcolm lived a long life. And Esa—Esa left her daughter in our keeping.”

Erich’s jaw tightened and he nodded his head. He slowly rose to his feet and extended a hand to Maggie.

“Come. We have much to celebrate.”

At first glance, the Norse village could have been mistaken for Powhatan. A straight central path divided two rows of long-house style dwellings, taller and larger than the yehakins the Indians used, but similar in structure with thatched roofs and bark slat shingles. As they rode the path through the village, the sounds of crushed stone beneath the horse’s hooves announced them. Wide-eyed women and children peered out from doorways as they passed, clad in homespun tunics with cord-wrapped waists, with long locks braided amongst red and golden hair. Maggie did not know if she felt sheltered or trapped as she rode surrounded by the Norse, her heart pounding against the toddler bound in her lap. As they came upon a massive Long House at the end of the path and dismounted, several young boys ran out to take the horses. She was stunned to see a copper-skinned youth among them, a boy with long black hair and eyes like coal pellets, dressed in breeches like the others. He was clearly part Indian, living among a colony of Norsemen.

The men walked clustered behind Marcus and Erich. They were an intimidating bunch, all brawn and steel weapons among bared chests and fur-covered shoulders. Most were brawny, like Marcus and Winn. Many were fair-haired like Erich, with reddish blond locks lying long down their backs. They carried decorated weapons, lavish appearing items that seemed out of place considering the simple way they lived.

Winn and Maggie were escorted to the end of a long plank table that sat centered in the Noroanveror Skali, the place they called the Northern Hall. End to end, it breached the span of the room, with enough spaces on the benches to hold more than the number of warriors that accompanied them. Other smaller tables lined one wall and a fire rose from a pit in the other corner. Women and children began filling in as well, and from the smell of thick venison in the air she imagined it was time for a meal. Teyas offered to take Kwetii and Maggie gladly complied.

“What is this place?” Maggie asked, craning her neck to see past the men. Winn studied the warriors in silence before he answered her.

“I have heard of Tassantassas that live near the Nansemond, but I have never been to this place. If my uncle knew of them, they would all be dead. What else Pale Feather lies about, I know not,” Winn said tersely.

“I don’t think he lied about this, Winn. He told me most of the other Time Walkers were gone. He seemed just as surprised as we were when they showed up. Maybe he didn’t know.”

He grunted his doubt.

“Believe what you must,” he replied.

Maggie was shown a seat to the left of Marcus, who held position at the head of the table. She saw him attempt to refuse the chair but Erich insisted, and finally Marcus grabbed the tall chair and shoved it back, plunking down with a scowl on his face. She expected equal resistance from Winn, yet was surprised when he took the bench across from her at the immediate right hand of Marcus.

“I hope ye find our table suffices, my lady,” Erich said as he sat down beside her. He stared at her for a moment with his full lips parted as if to speak, but then clamped his mouth shut while shaking his head.

“What is it?” she asked. She had no idea what to say to the stranger, nor how to address him. Growing accustomed to living in another time had been difficult enough, but now as she sat beside her newfound relative, the reality of it all felt like an elephant sitting on her chest. She held her breath, afraid to look too closely at him, lest he disappear. Was he truly her uncle, this massive brute of a man? And if so, why had he sent her mother, his sister, away with Marcus to the future?

“Ye have yer mother’s look is all. I’m afraid ye might be a ghost sitting beside me, and if I look away for too long, ye’ll be gone.”

Erich looked sincere, but it was too much for her to tolerate much longer. Marcus, or Dagr, whatever name he was called by, sat perched at the head of the table like their long suffering King. Men came by, patting him on the shoulders with hearty welcome, then moved to Winn to welcome him. With the scowl on his face and the doubt in his eyes, she was perplexed to see him nod gracefully to each man who approached him. Makedewa and Chetan looked on, their faces reserved, while Ahi Kekeleksu made friends with the other youths running through the hall. The intensity of testosterone-induced semantics was rapidly rising to more than she could bear, so when Erich patted her hand in a soothing manner, she jerked away from him. She had known the man all of an afternoon. How dare he treat her as if he had claim to her, as if being a blood relative meant anything?

“You sent my mother away. Why? If you loved her so damn much, how could you do that?” she snapped, her voice rising a pitch. The murmurs in the hall silenced and heads turned their way. She stood up, knocking her bench over backward in the process, unflinching when it clattered to the ground.

“I can explain–” Erich said.

He reached for her hand and she shrunk back from him, stepping further away as a gasp came from the crowd.

“Don’t touch me!” she said. In the next moment, Winn was at her side, catching her wrist before she slapped her uncle’s perplexed face.

“Sit down, Fire Heart,” he said. Erich drew away, and someone else righted her bench. Teyas and Rebecca made room for Winn to sit next to her.

She glared at Winn, every ounce of her frustration now bent on him, taking the last slice of her self-control to keep from screaming at him as well. She knew he could see it from the way she trembled, her finger nails digging into his arms.

“I sent yer mother with my lord to seek safety. I knew he would protect my sister with his life. Dagr is my Chief, and my most trusted friend,” Erich said. Marcus watched the interaction, still seated, resting his elbows on the table in front on him. “I see ye know nothing of yer powerful blood. Have ye told her naught, my lord?” Erich said, directing his question to Marcus.

“She knows verra little. Her journey here was unexpected. I leave her teachings to ye now.”

Eric grinned. He leaned up over the table, nearly upending his bench as he waved a younger man to his side.

“Harald! Up fer a tale, boy?” he shouted. “He fancies himself our Skald, ye know,” Erich laughed, shooting a sly glance at Marcus.

The young man approached, eyeing them shyly from beneath thick dark lashes. His tousled brown hair was worn shoulder length, like some of the other men, with small sections wrapped in cord hanging about his narrow face.

“Yes, my Lord. A good one, fer our guests, then?” Harald said. Erich glanced in a questioning manner at Marcus, who waved him on with a flick of his wrist and resorted to downing the rest of his drink. When young Harald smiled, Maggie could not help but let out a giggle, which she muffled under her fist. He was missing the bottom half of one front tooth, which did not seem to bother him in the least as he started his story.

“Aye, but they are no guests. This man is son to our Chief. My lady is a blooded MacMhaolian. Make it yer best fer them, boy,” Erich declared. Children gathered in a circle at his feet, shooed over by elders to enjoy the tale.

Harald made a sweeping bow to Marcus and then another to her, bringing a smile to her face. He was a gangly young man, eager to please, and she liked him immediately. He was a welcome contrast to the testosterone infused brawn and bulk that surrounded her, masquerading as newfound kinfolk.

“Once there was a man called Jarl Drustan. He was born at Brattahlid, in the land of Greenland, a most treacherous place, indeed,” Harald jumped up onto the bench beside Maggie. He placed a hand across his brow, his knobby elbow sticking out, searching the room from end to end. “Jarl Drustan was a man of the sea. But he was a man of secrets as well, for it was his kin, and his alone that were bound by blood for a greater task!”

“What task? What task!” the children cried, their faces upturned in rapt anticipation.

“Oh, it is a great honor, that which he had! For Jarl Drustan protected the Blooded Ones, our very own blessed ones.”

Maggie’s heart skipped and her mouth felt suddenly dry.

“A finer man ye wouldna find in all the land, Our Lord Drustan. One fateful day our Lord Drustan was ordered to the sea, where he was to go a-Viking. He set out with his clan to search fer new lands, on a fine new Longship made fer such occasion.”

“Where did he go?” A tow-headed boy called out. Maggie noticed Ahi Kekeleksu sitting with the boys, just as enthralled in the tale as the other children.

“He searched and searched, for many long days, and many long nights. He searched for land, but never found it. He searched until the last of the food was eaten, and the people began to suffer of hunger. There was no land to be found, and it seemed he had led his people to death.” He crouched down in dramatic pause, on eye level with the children. “Aye, ye know this tale, do ye not?”

“Nay, nay, tell it again, again!” the children shouted.

“Well, our Lord and protector, he would not let his people die at sea fer his own fault. He knew the blood of a Chief could save them, and so he bid his lovely Finola goodbye. Before they could beg him off, he held his Bloodstone, and spilled his blood upon the vessel. He sent his people to a new place. They came safe to this time, aye, and now ye all sit before us, all ye little hens,” he said, reaching out to pat the head of a blond haired girl. He tapped the heads of the children one by one as he murmured, “Each of ye have a bit of the Blooded Ones in ye, a sprinkle here, a tad bit there. Not enough fer such a grand journey, but enough in ye to be one of us.”

“Why did he die? Could he not go with them?” the blond girl asked, her round face scrunched into a frown.

“Oh, nay, little one. It takes too much to send a whole Longship through time. It takes all the blood of a Chief to do such a great deed. The life of a Chief, or a blooded MacMhaolian, only one of them can make that magic work. Ye know the Bloodstone’s a dangerous magic. That’s why none of ye wear them round yer necks. None except our MacMhaolian lady, returned to us by our Great Chief Dagr.”

All heads turned to Maggie as Harald knelt down beside her, taking her hand into his with a flourish. He made great sport of kissing it, and then bowed deep to both her and to Marcus. Maggie’s pulse pounded in her throat as the hall full of onlookers focused on her.

Marcus lifted up his hand. In his fist was a long, tapered white horn, embellished with gold and silver filigree and studded with dozens of gemstones. The hall fell silent once again as he raised it in salute, then took a long drink.

“Esa svá gott, sem gott kveþa,

öl alda sunum,

þvít fæ'ra veit, es fleira drekkr,

síns til geþs gumi!”

The Long House erupted in chaos, men and women shouting and stomping, beating their fists on tables and screaming their approval. She looked slowly around the room. Erich had a grin on his lips, raising his tankard to Marcus in a silent gesture.

“What did he say?” she whispered, not directly addressing Erich, yet knowing he was the only one who might answer her.

“He shouts his thanks to be among his people once more, and bids us all many cups of mead.”

Marcus left his perch, drinking horn held carefully out as he came to their side. He placed one hand on Winn’s shoulder, and while he looked briefly at Winn, he offered the horn to Maggie.

“Margret, I have watched over ye since the day ye were born. There is much to tell you of how it came to pass, and tell ye, we will. But for now, drink. This is the vessel of my ancestors. Take of it, wife of my son, daughter of my heart. Drink and be happy.”

She wanted nothing more than to pour it on his head, but when her husband took the horn and drank, she felt she had no choice. When both she and Winn had tasted, a roar of shouts emerged from the crowd once again. The ground beneath her feet seemed to rumble with the pounding of the drums, and the rowdy voices of men broke into song.

To her chagrin, Winn had the look of amusement about him. As those around them bent to the task of celebrating, he pulled her near and whispered in her ear.

“How is it?” he asked. She scrunched her brow.

“How is what?”

“Being the kin of a Norseman? Do they seem so brave to you now?”

“Not funny, Winn,” she replied, kicking him lightly with the tip of her moccasin-clad toe. “Not funny at all.”

Winn

Winn noticed the women gather the small children as they made ready to leave the Long House. Although he sat with Marcus and Erich, he waited for Maggie to look to him. Angry or no, she would not leave without some sort of acknowledgement. She wiped Kwetii’s mouth with the edge of her shift and adjusted the sleepy child in her arms, and as she turned to say something to Teyas, her eyes met his across the room. She issued him a wry smile, and he nodded in return. It was a small gesture but a necessary one, and he was glad she had calmed her fire long enough to relax with her kin.

He stood up from his seat beside Marcus with intent to join his wife, but both Marcus and Erich protested. Other young men filled in the benches where the women had left, shouldering in to grab the next pass of the mead tankard. Winn had seen the Englishmen soused on ale many times, but it was nothing compared to how the Norse consumed. He lost track hours ago of how much he had taken, drank only because each warrior who greeted him insisted on filling his tankard after slapping him heartily on the back. Apparently, being the son of the leader held many perks among the Norse, and having a plentiful supply of mead was one of them.

“Stay. The women need us naught, let them tend the mitings,” Marcus said, filling Winn’s mug yet again. Winn eyed his father warily.

“You know little of my wife. She looks now to see there is no bloodshed.” He felt her presence behind him before her fingers touched his shoulder, the scent of her musky skin stirring his blood. He clenched his jaw, wanting nothing more to bury his frustration into his wife’s willing arms, but when he glanced at her he could see she was as agitated as he.

“I’ll see you soon, husband?” she murmured, bending close to his ear. He nodded.

“Take your rest. I will join you soon.”

He touched Kwetii’s trailing heel before they left, and turned back to the men. He noticed Marcus and Erich watch her leave as well, and wondered how his wife would adapt with such change. Suddenly she had a family, when her entire life, she had only Marcus and her grandfather. He listened when she told him the stories of her childhood, often fascinated by the tales of the future she told, yet in one very deep-rooted way he could understand her anger. Suddenly thrust into a family where secrets and lies abounded? Yes, that was an anger he knew well.

“I know that woman as much as ye, and don’t ye forget it. I’m surprised she hasn’t split ye over the head yet, with the way ye order her about. She doesn’t take so well to orders,” Marcus grumbled, taking a swig of his mead. “They grow up different in the future. Where did ye find her, when the Bloodstone took her from me?”

“On a bluff overlooking the valley, near where I buried the Bloodstones you left.”

Marcus sat back and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Why did ye bury them?”

“The Pale Witch said a Time Walker would come, a Blooded One that I would fail to kill. I meant to break the curse, to keep it from happening. I wanted no part of that magic, nor of any Time Walkers.”

“That surely dinna work,” Marcus replied with a half-choked snort. “Instead ye put them right in her path. The bluff over the valley? That’s where we lived in the future. We had a farm on that same spot. It’s the same place the Bloodstone took her from.”

“You just leave Bloodstones lying around in your future?” Winn asked. Winn swallowed down another swig of mead, watching his father’s face turn from amused to something else. The man lifted his head, looking out over the crowed room before he answered.

“No. Ye buried the stones. Whoever built the house dug them up and used them, not knowing what they were. It was pure chance that she stumbled upon them. Maybe ye meant to keep her away, but it’s because of you she’s here, all the same. She and I would both still be in the future if ye had not buried the bloody things.”

“You would have left Benjamin here in the past?” Winn said, surprised at the confession Marcus spoke. His father’s shoulders sagged and he uttered a deep sigh.

“I dinna know where he was, until I found the note from Maggie. Benjamin was just a lad when he disappeared. I thought his blasted mother took him, but I knew nothing fer sure. It could have been magic, or she could have just left with him. When Maggie was taken, I took a shovel to the barn floor. I found the stones, and the letter your wife left in a pewter flask. I realized Benjamin was here as well. That’s when I knew I had to come find ye.”

“That was near two years past. Why did you wait?”

“To prepare. To look for clues. I searched records and deeds, every church log I could find. It’s different in the future, Winn. Some of us disappear from history, some remain. Marriage contracts, court logs. Birth records…death records. I found nothing of the Norse I left behind. There is no trace in history of any Norse who lived among the First People. I thought if any survived the attack by your uncle, they must have tried to flee to Vinland. Even so, I found enough clues to track ye down—you and Maggie.”

Winn’s chest tightened.

“You say there are records of us? Death records?” Winn said.

Marcus nodded, his lips tight in a thin line.

“There’s much I know about how things will go,” his father said quietly. “Best we leave it at that, don’t ye think, lad? It’s enough now to be here, with my kin once more. I thought they were all lost to me.”

Winn remained silent. His thoughts scattered, lost in how it all happened. As an angry young man he had buried the cursed Bloodstones to prevent the Time Walker from using them. Instead, it was because of his actions that Maggie ended up in the past. He would not change it, even if he could, that selfish voice down deep in his blood making itself known. She belonged to him, to his time, and no other.

“She’s a rare one, that Maggie is. Ye know I raised her as my own,” Marcus said.

Winn eyed him, gazing square at blue eyes so like his own.

“I know this.”

“Yer uncle waged war on us. All these men here,” he said, waving one arm out to encompass the table. “I thought all these men dead, or gone into hiding. Opechancanough told me he had killed them and their women. Even my right hand, Erich, who sits here with us. I did what I must to protect the rest–Malcolm, Helgrid, and Maggie’s young mother, Esa. It was my duty to protect Esa and her unborn babe. I knew nothing of ye, you must understand.”

“Would it have mattered, even if you knew of me?”

Marcus hesitated before he spoke.

“Yes, it would have mattered. But still, I would have gone.”

Winn clenched his tankard, and then made the effort to loosen his grip as he slowly released it. He waited for Marcus to explain himself further before he responded, staring into his cup as his father struggled to explain.

“Yer mother was a good woman, but she wanted Pepamhu, even then. Yer uncle and my mother arranged our marriage as a means to prevent more bloodshed, but it failed. Pepamhu helped us escape when it all went bad. I left knowing he would take her to wife. I regret that it pains ye, but that’s the truth of it.”

Winn let out the breath he held and let the tension recede from his flexed arms. After taking a swallow of the mead and feeling its warmth creep into his belly, he nodded.

“I thank ye for keeping her safe,” Erich interrupted, reaching across Winn to smash his raised tankard to the horn Marcus held. Erich peered at Winn. “And fer ye, I’m verra pleased to have ye married to my niece. We always planned to see yer son wed to a MacMhaolian, did we not, Dagr?”

Winn saw the way his father’s eyes narrowed and his brow creased. He suspected his father had a different son in mind, but being he was attempting to understand the man he let that suspicion lie.

“Aye, that we did,” Marcus agreed. “Seems she chose just fine without us, and here we are.”

Erich grinned, nodding along with Marcus.

“I dinna get the honor of making ye fight fer her. I think her cousin would have given ye good reason to treat her well, right Cormaic?” Erich hollered. The young warrior who had first greeted their party in the woods grinned from his seat at the end of the table, raising his arm amongst the crowd of men surrounding him.

“Aye, father! A good thrash I’d have given him, for the honor of my pretty cousin’s hand!” Cormaic shouted. The men erupted in hoots and bellows around him. “It is not too late to show the Chief’s son my hammer!”

“Ach, down with yer fookin lucht talk!” Erich laughed, waving a hand at them. “Save it fer the English whoresons, so ye can end them when we next meet.”

“What of the English? Do they come to this place, like they do the other villages?” Winn interrupted. He had the uneasy feeling of not quite understanding their humor, with the thick accents they all spoke and the unfamiliar dialect. He could glean enough from their body language, however, so when the topic of Englishmen arose and the younger men stopped laughing, he suspected there was reason for it.

Marcus looked to Erich, who drained his cup and held it out for more. A younger man quickly refilled it, and Erich resumed drinking as he spoke, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed like emerald pebbles.

“They sent a man here a few days past, just one, and not much of a fighter, that be sure. The Englishman spoke naught of what he was sent fer, so we have no thought as to what they want. I sent a rider to the Nansemond to ask on it, he should return soon.”

“This Englishman, he said nothing?” Marcus asked. Erich shrugged, lowering his head to his drink.

“Nay. He said nothing useful before I clouted the lucht.”

The men roared with laughter, and although his cheeks flushed bright red, Erich grinned.

“Great. Ye’ve clouted the only man who could give us an answer. Nothing has changed, aye?” Marcus grumbled. “Ye hotheaded MacMhaolian!”

Winn grinned along with his wife’s uncle, and finished the rest of his drink.

The plank door was ajar, and he pushed it further open so he might enter the structure. It was smaller than the Great Long House yet similar in build, with a tall peaked roof topped with a smoke hole. A fire pit along one wall of the single room warmed the space well, sheltering a pile of sleeping furs nearby that lay strewn across a low platform bed. Not that they needed much warmth on such a humid summer night, but he was pleased with the space they had been provided by the Norse.

Teyas stood with Kwetii on her hip, the child hanging limp with exhaustion. Maggie was shaking her head at Teyas in protest.

“She can stay here with us, really, Teyas! It’s a strange place, what if she wakes up and needs me?”

“We are only over there. Take your rest, sister, I will tend her tonight.”

He frowned. He placed one hand on Maggie’s arm, and waved Teyas to go with the other, grunting a low command in Paspahegh. His sister answered him in kind, and with a respectful nod, took the sleeping child and left.

“I wanted her to stay here.”

He paused before he spoke, unwilling to incite his combative wife any further. He could see she was on the edge of fury, her fists bunched at her sides, trembling under his touch. She simmered like a flame, but he knew her well enough to know it must be doused before she would listen to reason. He caressed the palm of her hand his thumb, making slow circles on her skin, watching her flashing green eyes waver at the connection.

“She is not far, and you know my sister cares for her well.”

“I know that. I just wanted her here.”

He took a chance and pulled her close, kissing her pursed lips until she softened and opened to him. She put one hand on his chest as if to push him away, but he knew her game and caught it instead to his chest, pressing it between their bodies.

“You want, you want, always what you want,” he teased her. “I should have cut your tongue out long ago.” He circled her neck with the fingers of one hand, pressing lightly as his lips moved downward. He smiled when she sighed. Yes, finally, she would relent.

“I know what you’re doing,” she whispered.

“And?”

“You can’t distract me.”

“We shall see. Come here,” he said. She offered no resistance when he pulled her into his arms, yet still, dark thoughts remained in the depths of his mind.

So many others suddenly laid claim to his woman, and he did not care for it one bit. Did he only want her, or did he need her, or was it the power of possession like a spoiled youth that drove him? He did not know.

He could only keep her close and hope it would be enough.

Makedewa

Makedewa sheathed the new sword on his back, sliding it into the harness Erich had given him. He enjoyed the company of the Norse more than he would admit to his brother, knowing it was a heated topic to broach with Winn. Winn’s kinfolk knew how to make strong weapons, and although they did not possess the firepower that the English had, the strength of their fighting power seemed formidable. He wondered if his brother would wish to settle in the village, as his headstrong wife obviously desired. Only the Creator knew how that decision would play out between his brother and his wife.

The other men had gathered in the training field, and although he was eager to join them, he decided to check on Rebecca first. She still owed him a reading lesson, and as he thought of collecting on the bargain a smile formed on his lips. Perhaps he might thaw her tender heart a bit with a stolen moment alone. It had been days since he held her in his arms, more than a week, in fact, and the thought of continuing where they left off roared like a slow fire within. Since the day he rescued her from the massacre he had waited patiently to gain her trust. Now that he had tasted what it was like to have a piece of her heart, the only thing he could think of was to have it again.

She was alone when he found her in Winn’s Long House, dousing the remnants of the fire. He reveled in watching the sweet curve of her backside as she bent to work, her hair strewn over her shoulders in a cascade of coils. Eager to have her in his arms, he closed the door softly and threw the latch with a click, the sound causing her to swing around with a panicked look on her face. Her anxiety eased when she realized it was him, and it sent a surge of heat through his blood to see her smile. He unsheathed his sword and left it propped against the wall.

“Ye startled me!” she laughed as he crossed the space. He gathered her into his arms, covering her soft mouth with his and stifling the remnants of her exclamation.

“It’s only me,” he murmured. He glanced toward the door. “You owe me a reading lesson. I’ve come to collect.”

She let out a nervous laugh and backed away, and he let her go. He sat down on the edge of the bedding platform for want of anywhere else to sit, determined to put her at ease.

“I have no books to teach ye here. Perhaps we should just…talk?” she suggested shyly, her skin flushing pink. He grinned, watching her slow her breaths, knowing that she was just as affected by him as he was her. He took her hands and pulled her close. He kissed each of her clenched fists and looked up into her eyes.

“Talk? I would hear your answer. I want you as my wife, but you have yet to tell me yes.” His chest clenched when he saw her round eyes fill with tears, and he pulled her onto his lap in a reflexive motion. He wanted to soothe her, to chase away her doubt, yet he was at loss how to show her his intention, especially when even being in the same space with her drove him to the point of madness. He had not lain with a woman since he became a man, which had not bothered him so much until he found Rebecca. The last two years spent watching her, cultivating her trust, and dreaming of her when he lay alone at night had felt like a slow torture, yet it was now a torrid burn that distracted his every thought.

“Oh, Makedewa,” she said softly. She sat tentatively in his lap, looking down, her curls spilling over her shoulders onto his chest. He scarce drew breath as he watched her, thrilled to simply hold her, yet afraid she would flee.

What would please her? What would make her agree to be his wife?

He expected some tension because of her past, but when she wrapped her arms around his neck he was sure it would be fleeting. He murmured sweet words of love as his lips grazed gently over hers.

“Nouwami,” he whispered. He raised his head to kiss her again, and then the breath left his chest in a painful blow. Her eyes were clenched closed, her throat constricted so much he could see her pulse throbbing beneath her chin. A tear slid down her cheek.

“I cannot be a good wife to ye,” she whispered, her eyes buried away from him. He shifted and grasped her chin, gently turning it upward. Her eyes were puffy, her cheeks streaked with tears.

“Yes, you will. We can wait for this. I will wait for you,” he insisted. He wanted to tell her that he had waited so long already without assurance she would want him, but now that he knew she cared he at least had that to hold. If only she would accept his pledge, he would give her as long as she needed.

“I wish ye to hold me like this, so much so it aches,” she said. “But I fear I cannot be a wife to a man.”

“If only I may hold you, that is enough for now,” he replied, his voice strained. He had a sickly feeling of what she meant, and he did not want to hear the words.

“But if that is all I can give ye? Nay. I fear to see anger in your eyes when you look at me.”

She stood up and gathered her shift to a semblance of decency. He could see her fingers tremble and his frustration rose. Did she think so little of him? Did she truly believe he only wished to share her bed, and that was all being a wife meant to him?

“You think I am angered now?” he asked. With her back to him he saw her shoulders sag, and she wrapped her arms around herself in a protective manner.

“I fear to look at ye,” she admitted. “I can tell when ye are fierce. I see yer jaw is hard, and yer eyes are black as coals. I know the look of a man angered.” Despite his agitation, he moved beside her, taking care not to touch her.

“I am angered at the man who hurt you. I have no anger at you,” he replied. “I would kill any man who harmed you,” he added darkly. He reached for her hand, and sighed when she jerked it away.

“I am sorry,” she whispered, her lip trembling. She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Perhaps we should just…lay together. I will not stop ye. Then perhaps it will be easier.”

Her suggestion tore through him like a blade.

“No. Why do you say such a thing?” he said, his voice rising despite his effort to contain it. He ran his hands through his hair, then dropped to his knees before her. He laid his head down on her knees, wishing she would put hands on him to give him some semblance of hope, yet her fists remained closed at her sides. “I would never–I could not hurt you that way. When we lay together, it will be because you wish it, not to chase a ghost away.”

“I fear the ghost of that man will always haunt me.”

He clenched her skirts as her fingers slid over his head, holding him to her lap. Her scent was too close, too inviting, her skin too soft as he held her. Her tears no longer fell, her face now more a mask of certainty in her own failure than one hopeful of trudging through it. He needed to think, to figure out a way to mend things, but he could not do that when she looked at him with those haunted blue eyes.

“I am nothing like that man. He was of my people, but he was no warrior. Is it him you see, when you look at me?” he asked, raising his eyes to meet hers. Her throat tightened and she said nothing, looking down to avoid his stare. Her silence was far worse than what her words might have been.

He stood up away from her. He grabbed his new sword and sheathed it over his shoulder, then addressed her as calmly as he could muster with his back to her.

“Take your rest, chulentet. I must join the men, we can speak on this later,” he muttered.

He felt like a swine for leaving her. Yet it was how he had dealt with painful emotion his entire life, and he knew no other way to journey.

Rebecca

“Oh, I thought Kwetii was with you.”

Rebecca looked up at the sound of Maggie’s voice. She wiped the back of her hand over her nose and then over her flyaway hair, acutely aware that she looked like a windblown mess. Except her appearance was not due to the wind, unless one counted the man who had just fled her side with the speed of a beach-swept breeze. She swallowed back a sob at the thought of his back to her and his cold words before he left her. Yes, she had angered him, even if he would not admit it so, and she feared there would never be a way to give him what he wanted.

“Nay, Teyas took her to play with other children. They have many little ones here,” Rebecca answered. Maggie tilted her head a bit to the side, her mane of red hair falling across her face. With her lips pursed tight and her eyebrows raised, Rebecca knew that look. As much as she loved Maggie, the woman was tenacious when it came to knowing secrets, and if she suspected one held anything back she would be at it like a horsefly on sweating skin.

“What troubles you? Your eyes are red,” Maggie asked. Rebecca shook her head in denial, knowing full well it would not be enough to placate Maggie.

“It is nothing to worry ye. Go on, be about yer tasks,” she said. Instead of listening, Maggie plunked down on the bedding platform next to her. It was the space Makedewa had occupied only a few short moments ago, she thought with a pang in her belly. What if Maggie had found them, doing what they were doing? Her friend would surely think her nothing more than a harlot, as her poor dead mother would have.

“Come with me then. I’m going to watch the men train with Erich. I’d like you with me,” Maggie offered. “Unless you’d rather tell me what makes you cry.”

Rebecca sighed. It was no use keeping anything from her.

“Makedewa asked me to be his wife,” she murmured, her voice cracking somewhat. She jumped when Maggie let out a squeal and threw her arms around her, hugging her and jumping up and down.

“That’s wonderful! Oh, that’s perfect! We’ll have a beautiful wedding here–I’m sure Marcus will help, and–”

“There will be no wedding,” Rebecca interrupted, putting an abrupt stop to Maggie’s excited tirade.

“Why? What happened?”

“I willna be a good wife for any man, Maggie. Especially one such as he.”

Maggie drew back, her brows squinted down over her bright jade eyes as she shook her head in a motherly manner.

“You’d be a fine wife to him, sweetheart,” she said. “I’m sure he’d treat you kindly. He loves you so, it’s plain to see.”

Rebecca felt the tears escape at Maggie’s declaration, and she let the other woman hold her then. Yes, she loved him as well, if she was bent on making confessions. It only made it that much more difficult to hear that Makedewa loved her the same way.

“Does it always feel so…so frightful…when a man lays with a woman?” she asked shyly, her voice barely audible. She knew her cheeks flamed when she spoke, but Maggie was the only one she trusted enough who could give her any hope.

Maggie rocked her gently as she would have done with Kwetii.

“No, lamb, it’s not. It’s a beautiful thing. I’m sure you would find it was very special with Makedewa. He would never hurt you,” Maggie replied, her voice comforting, even as Rebecca heard the nervous falter in her tone. She swallowed back her pride, determined to ask the questions on her mind.

“But I’ve heard ye sometimes at night. It sounds like Winn’s killing ye.”

It was Maggie’s turn to blush, and her skin flushed from her ears to her chest. Her breathing came a bit faster as she struggled to answer, and Rebecca waited patiently. If anyone would tell her the truth, it would be Maggie.

“No, no. I know it must sound–it sounds strange. It’s only because we both enjoy it. It’s normal to–to make sounds,” Maggie stammered. “Because it feels…nice.”

Rebecca buried her face in her hands. She understood what Maggie was getting at, and she certainly knew the pleasure of his touch on her body. It was what came after kissing that she was afraid she could never do. Worse yet, she feared disappointing him. She was no idiot; she witnessed the raw passion between Maggie and Winn on a daily basis. Yet Maggie never seemed angered or upset after their episodes, in fact, she seemed placated. He made her happy, no matter what he was doing to her in their marriage bed. She identified with the happy aspect, as she had been the happiest of her life since the day Makedewa confessed his feelings for her. Yet along with the pleasure of exploring touches and stolen kisses, fear of the natural course of things began to smother her thoughts. Until that very afternoon, she thought she could push it aside.

“Will ye send me back to the English if I do not marry him?” she whispered. Maggie pulled her into a hug.

“Of course not. You’re family, no matter what. You will always have a place with us,” Maggie insisted.

They clung together for a long time in silence, with Maggie rocking her as if they were born blood sisters.

Maggie

Maggie walked beside Erich to the training field. She could see the men gathered in a semi-circle, watching a pair of combatants as they sparred. Winn stood with his brothers among the Norsemen, his legs banked shoulder-width apart, his hands folded across his bare chest as he watched. It was strange to see him amongst the others, these men whose bloodlines he shared. She was surprised to see Makedewa wearing a fur lined harness, similar to what Marcus wore, with a shiny new steel sword strapped to his back. Makedewa was the flamboyant one compared to his brothers, and seeing him attired like the Norseman was something to behold.

“Why are they training? Do you expect trouble?” she asked.

Erich showed her to a rough hewn wooden bench and sat down beside her, his eyes on the men. She wondered why he did not join them.

“We must always be ready. Trouble comes when ye least expect,” he replied. He tilted his head to her and pointed to the two men fighting. “See that lad? The one who first found yer family in the woods? That man is yer cousin, Young Cormaic, my son.”

He was the tall young man who had spoken with Marcus before Erich intervened. Metal clashed and squealed as they struck, the sounds of hollow thuds spiking the silence from the blows upon their shields. Cormaic was the aggressor in the pair, pushing his opponent back until the man knelt down in defeat. Erich grinned.

“My son has never been defeated since he reached manhood.”

“He looks tough,” she mumbled. He raised an eyebrow.

“What meaning is that?”

“Strong. Tough means strong.” She looked down at her hands, folding them together in her lap. “Your wife. Is she here?”

He nodded. “I will take you to her. She would have come sooner to see ye, but she tends a sick man.”

“All right.”

“We can take yer bairn as well. Yer aunt will be happy to meet ye both.”

She heard the way his voice cracked, and stole a curious glance at him out of the corner of her eye. His almond shaped eyes were squinted nearly shut as he watched the men, his back stiff and straight beside her. He cleared his throat with a cough and kept his eyes averted.

“Dagr has been my friend since we were children. He’s done well in protecting ye. I’m proud to see ye grown, so much like yer mother. It is something I never thought to see with mine own eyes, so I thank ye for it.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Just please…try to understand how strange this is. I grew up with only Marcus and my Grandfather. You can’t expect me to–to know how to act.”

He smiled a bit, and his eyes softened.

“Ye staying here is enough. We have plenty of time now.”

“I don’t know how long we will stay, Erich–uh, uncle–I don’t even know what to call you!”

“Ye can call me Erich if ye like,” he said quietly. She bit her lower lip, keeping her gaze on the warriors.

“All right. Erich then. But my husband wants us to go live with the Nansemond, I’m sure we won’t be here much longer.”

“I spoke to him on it. He says he will leave ye here for a time, whilst he rides to do his tribe’s bidding. I tried to have him leave off of it but he would not be swayed. He’s a hard man, yer Indian husband.”

“He’s not leaving me anywhere. He wouldn’t just leave us here,” she snapped, agitated at the revelation that Erich knew more of her husband’s plans than she did. It was unlike Winn to make such a decision without at least telling her of it, and she was not ready to believe he would leave her among strangers. Family, yes, but they were still strangers, no matter if one was her uncle and one was Winn’s long-lost father.

Erich laughed, a hearty guffaw that brought a flush to her cheeks.

“What is so funny?”

“Ye think ye can turn that man’s vow once he’s made it? He’s a bull-headed lad if ever I met one, not likely ye have any say in it!”

“Humph,” she snorted. She turned to him, lips pursed. “You have a lot to learn about women from the future, uncle.”

“Aye, surely I do!” he laughed. She smiled along with him despite her annoyance.

Her grin diminished when she saw the next warrior enter the circle. It was Winn, and he held a long sword. Sunlight shimmered off the polished metal as he turned it in his hands, as if he tested its weight. Makedewa and Chetan looked on from the sidelines, and several other Norsemen pounded him on the back as he adjusted his grip on the weapon. Cormaic stood a few paces away, stretching his arms above his head.

“What is he doing?” she asked, more to herself than to Erich.

“Fighting, fer sure,” he grinned. She stood up and made to move past him, but he caught her by the upper arm and deposited her back in her seat.

“He’s never used a sword!” Maggie said.

“He’s doing just fine. Keep yerself here, are ye daft thinking ye might stop them?” She blew out her air in a snort and crossed her arms over her chest.

“This is ridiculous!” she hissed. “I’m going down there!”

“No, my lady, ye are not!”

He leaned down, so close she could see the crease across his forehead and the tiny flecks of gold within his green eyes. He placed a hand on either side of her on the bench.

“If ye want to shame him before the men, then go down there. If not, I bid ye to keep yer arse on the bench and pay heed as yer man fights.”

“I don’t want to shame him,” she said softly.

“Then pay him honor by watching. Do they teach ye no manners in the time ye came from? I swear ye act right barmy!”

She ducked her head as the unwanted grin crossed her lips.

“You sound like Granddad. He used to say I had rocks in my brain.”

“Well, Da was a sharp man. Might been some truth to that,” he replied. He stood back and opened his arms, waving a hand at the warriors. “So ye’ll sit then, like I bid ye?”

“If you’re asking, then, yes,” she agreed.

She flinched at the clash of metal upon metal, her attention captivated by the fight before them. Winn was not quite as tall as Cormaic, yet he was equal in musculature. Wearing only a breechcloth and leggings, Winn seemed less encumbered than his opponent, his gait swift and precise as he tested the limits of the weapon. Cormaic was more brawn than speed, yet he was no opponent to be dismissed as even she could see. Each blow connected with a squeal and thud of the weapons, and she saw his muscles standing out as tense sinews when Winn deflected each assault.

Winn stepped back as he blocked an overhead blow, shaking his head as Cormaic advanced. He adjusted the sword in his hands, twirling it before he gripped it more securely. Cormaic’s skin was drenched with sweat as he approached, his chest heaving as he prepared his sword for another strike. When he struck high again, Winn went down onto one knee.

Erich put a hand on her shoulder when she gasped and started to rise, and she sat back down with an audible thump.

“Sit!” he warned. She gritted her jaw.

Cormaic stepped back and Winn rose slowly to his feet. He adjusted the sword again, his face a blank mask as he considered it. Giving him no more quarter, Cormaic closed in, striking low as the men around them roared their approval. She felt numb and heavy all over as she watched, bound to the bench even without Erich’s hand keeping her there.

Winn blocked the blow and threw Cormaic back with one powerful twist of the sword. Cormaic stumbled, recovered, and a perplexed look crossed his face as he looked down at his hands. Fresh blood stained his wrist where Winn had marked him.

She put her hands over her eyes as the two men crashed together in a spray of metal and straining flesh. The sounds of the battle were worse than the vision, so it was not long before she parted her fingers to peer out between them.

Suddenly, Winn had Cormaic in retreat, stumbling backward as Winn advanced with a series of heavy blows. Low to the side, low to the other, and then high overhead.

Cormaic fell onto his backside with the point of Winn’s sword nicking his neck. She could see Cormaic’s throat as he swallowed and a trickle of blood ran down his skin where the sword pierced him, his chest heaving as he lay immobile in the dirt. There was no sound or movement from the men as they all watched.

Winn looked down on Cormaic for a long moment. Finally, he drew the sword away and extended a hand. A wide grin crossed Cormaic’s face, and he clasped Winn’s arm to get to his feet.

“Well done, lad. Well done,” Erich said. “Son of a Chief, no doubt.”

Maggie rolled her eyes. The gesture was entirely lost on her uncle, but it made her feel better, in any case.

Erich’s wife was a buxom woman, her smile a rash of round flushed cheeks and a sweet heart-shaped face. When Erich made a short explanation of who Maggie was, Gwen flew across the room and tackled her head-on, nearly knocking her off her feet as she cried.

“Oh, child!” was all she said, repeating it as if it were the only thing she knew to say. “Oh, sweet Odin, child!” Although she struggled with feeling any connection to the strangers she now called kin, as the older woman embraced her and sobbed, Maggie felt tears rim her own eyes. She had never felt the embrace of a mother, nor anything close, and to feel the arms around her as she had often held her own child brought a sting of emotion she could not deny. Warm, soft, welcoming–the embrace of one who loved unconditionally–it was enough to thaw the ice in her heart.

“What do they call ye? Margret, ye say?” she woman asked, looking toward Erich for confirmation.

“Maggie they named ‘er. It’s like yon Margret, I suppose. But Esa’s daughter she is. My niece, all the same. Our own Blooded MacMhaolian, returned to us.”

Maggie glanced back at Erich, who leaned against the doorframe, watching them. He smiled, but she could see the pain in his eyes when he spoke her mother’s name. She wanted to ask of her, but she feared the barrier it might bring to the blossoming relationship they had formed. After all, she had waited a lifetime to know her kin, a few more days would not be so long before she could demand answers.

“Ye used the Bloodstone to come here? Dinna Dagr tell ye how dangerous it is? Even if he meant to see ye married to his son, he risks too much!” Gwen suddenly squealed, pushing Maggie back to glare at Erich. Erich shrugged, apparently expecting the question.

“Dagr dinna send her back. It was an accident, ye know how it can happen, woman,” he answered, his words clipped. “And she is married to his son. His Indian son. It happened with no help from him or I, so bide yer venom.” She scowled. Maggie noticed the inflection in Erich’s tone, and the warning glance he shot his wife.

“Well, good thing ye have yer aunt here, child. It seems like ye need a good dose of help if you’ll be using that blasted magic!” she grumbled.

“None of that, Gwen. She’ll not be using any more of it, not while I take breath. I’ll not have ye foolin’ with it. Ye know the laws as well as I.”

“What laws?” Maggie asked. Gwen and Erich fell silent. “Well, are you going to tell me, or do I have to ask Marcus? And what is this nonsense about marrying a son of Marcus?”

Erich uttered a groan and waved his hand at them in dismissal.

“Yer mother was the last Blooded MacMhaolian, the most powerful ones among us. We meant to protect her, and ye, by sending ye forward in time. But using a Bloodstone to return to the past like ye did is forbidden. No one will question Chief Dagr, but ye must know it’s not permitted among our people. Best ye forget about the Bloodstone. Leave off with it, aye?”

“So Marcus can do whatever he wants. Must be nice to be the Chief,” Maggie muttered.

“He followed ye back to see ye safe, child. He’s a good Chief, and a fine man. Ye’d do well to be wed to any son of his,” Gwen murmured. Erich shot her a seething stare.

Gwen put an arm around Maggie’s shoulders and shuffled her away as she muttered under her breath. Maggie could not help smiling. Her aunt seemed like a right fine woman.

“Here, take ye some mead, it’s from the old stock, but still fine,” she said to Erich, pushing a pewter tankard across the table toward him. He grunted in acknowledgement and sat down on the bench, his sword clattering against the wood and catching on the edge of the table.

“Take ye sword off, ye bloody fookin idiot!” Gwen screeched. Maggie covered her mouth with her hand to hide her smile, pretending she needed to cough, while she watched Erich’s eyes open wide as he scrambled to right himself. Clearly he respected the woman, and she was certainly the kind of woman Maggie could see being friends with.

“I should clapper yer tongue, ye know that, woman?” he snarled, taking a swig of the mead once he was settled. He raised an eyebrow at her, his mouth twisted in a half-grin.

“Aye, and yer arse needs a good washin’, ye bletherin’ fool, but ye no hear me makin’ sass about it, do ye?”

“Ah!” Erich growled.

“Right then!” Gwen retorted, as she glowered at him. “Here, keep the girl company whilst I tend to the lucht.”

“What does lucht mean?” Maggie whispered. Erich grinned.

“It’s not fit fer yer ears,” he replied with a chuckle.

The older woman swung one thick blond braid over her shoulder then grabbed a pitcher and a stack of linen. Erich shrugged and waved her off, so she followed Gwen into the back of the house where she ducked behind a curtain hanging across the thatched roof.

Lying on a narrow cot was a sleeping, or unconscious man. He was too tall for the bed, his feet hanging off at the ankles, and his shoulders resting a good two inches off each side so much it appeared he might topple over. A thick dark beard covered his face, and as Gwen knelt down next to him and put a sponge to his forehead, Maggie sucked in a sharp breath.

“What’s wrong with him?” she whispered.

“He took a blow to the head. He’s been like this for past a sennight. Why does it trouble you, girl?” Gwen asked as she wiped his sweating brow.

Maggie sank down beside her and took the man’s hand.

“It’s Benjamin. We’ve been looking for him.”

Maggie watched as Marcus sat in silence beside him, unmoving as he stared down at his lost son. Finally, he bowed his head, his thick curling hair falling gently forward to shield the sadness on his face, and he placed one large hand over Benjamin’s. Clasped together and folded on his chest, Benjamin looked like a body prepared for burial, not a man who might yet live. There were no outward signs of severe injury, yet his skin held a grey pallor and the right side of his forehead had a slight swelling accompanied by a bluish-yellow bruise. To her it did not appear serious, yet evidently, it was the injury that put him down.

When she confided to Gwen who Benjamin was, both her aunt and uncle were shocked. Erich confessed his culpability in Benjamin’s current condition. About a week prior, the English stranger came into the village asking questions about Bloodstones and Time Walkers, and then became violent when they told him to leave. It was Erich who clouted him in the head, intending to give him a chance to cool off. Instead the blow rendered him unconscious, and he had been unresponsive ever since.

When she heard Marcus sigh, she could no longer let him suffer alone. Although she knew Erich did not want her to intervene with their newly restored Chief, he knew nothing of her relationship with Marcus. Yes, things between them had changed irrevocably, yet he was the same man who had raised her. She would give him no less than the comfort he had always shown her.

“I’m so sorry,” she said softly, placing her hand on his shoulder from behind. His throat contracted as he swallowed.

“The last time I saw him, he was only a lad. Look at him now, a man full grown,” he said quietly. “We canna take care of him here. Not like this,” he said.

She held her tongue. What he alluded to was clearly forbidden, as both Erich and Gwen had proclaimed. Yet Marcus was their leader, a man they called Chief. Would he challenge them all by using the Bloodstone magic again? She had little doubt. If she knew anything about Marcus, it was that he would do whatever it took to keep his family safe. If he thought returning Benjamin to the future would save him, then he would do it, and God help any man who would stand in his way.

“He could wake up anytime. There’s no wound, just some swelling,” she said.

“It’s been more than a week, Maggie. Ye and I both know enough of modern medicine to see it’s serious. They canna care for him here, not like doctors do where we came from.”

“You wouldn’t do that. You can’t leave,” she replied.

“Says who? I’ll do as I need, as I always have.”

“You’d leave me? And your son? For Christ’s sake, if you do that, I will never forgive you!” she snapped, trying to keep her voice level, yet failing miserably.

“He’s my son. He needs a hospital, and I don’t see one here for three hundred years!” he bellowed back. “I’ll do what I must to see my son healed!”

“There are laws on using the magic, aren’t there?” she shouted. “You can’t just jump around through time however you please!”

“I can if I see fit, it’s my right!” he bellowed.

“Benjamin is not the only son you have, Chief Dagr!” she shot back. She felt a hand on her upper arm and shook it angrily off. “No, leave me be! If you leave, I will never forgive you! Do you hear me, Marcus Nielsson? Never.”

She swung around on her heel, and crashed into her husband, who had been standing behind her. Her heart sank as she realized he must have heard the entire exchange. She shrugged past him and left the cottage, back to her own temporary space.

The drying line was too high for her to reach, so she searched the room for something to stand on. Makedewa had hung it for her earlier in the day, stringing a thin piece of braided rawhide across two rafters on the roof so that she could dry clothes more effectively by the fire. As she jumped and tried to toss a damp swaddling cloth across the improvised clothesline, she heard a chuckle behind her.

“You do it, then,” she said, handing the nappy to her husband. He laid it carefully over the line, adjusted the adjacent garment, and gave her a smirk.

“Have you always been so small, wife?”

She smiled in return, but she knew it did not reach her eyes. She ducked her gaze and grabbed a pile of clothes, sorting through them to keep busy. His breath on her skin was warm, his unique scent sending goose bumps down the back of her neck. The smell of damp earth from training and a touch of evergreen, mixed with the sweat of his work, it was his smell, and she closed her eyes to it for a moment. He put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her ear very softly.

“Will you tell me?” he asked.

“Tell you what?” she murmured.

“What troubles you.”

She turned to face him, wringing her hands in the damp shift she held.

“I’m just shocked, that’s all.”

He nodded.

“As am I. Do you think he will live?”

“Does it matter?” she said, regretting the words the moment they left her lips.

He dropped his hands from her shoulders and stepped back. She watched as he silently removed his weapons and placed them on the table, first his knife, then the new sword at his side. It was heavy, a broad steel blade, the handle encrusted with colorful stones. Along one edge near the hilt were symbols she could not decipher, but she suspected they were runes. She had seen rune symbols carved into nearly everything in the village.

“A sword?” she asked.

“From Erich. He said it belonged to Drustan Nielsson, father to Pale Feather. It is still quite sharp.” Winn traced his finger along the length of the blade, looking up to meet her stare. “I will leave today to fetch the English prisoner from the Nansemond. Then I will bring Finola here. Chetan will ride with me. We will not be gone long.”

“But I don’t want you to go,” she said.

“Makedewa will stay here.”

“I don’t want your brother, I want you,” she insisted. She saw his jaw flex and his brows dart down. Could she put her foot in her mouth any further?

“I meant–” she added quickly, but he cut her off.

“I know what you meant. It changes nothing. You will stay here. I will return soon. Prepare to leave when I return, we will join the Nansemond.”

“But–”

“Enough!” he snapped, snatching the linens from her hand. “I say where we live, not you. I will hear no more on this, woman!” He looked at the clothes for a moment, then bunched them up and tossed them into a basket on the floor. He threw his hands up and made an agitated grunting sound, cursing in Paspahegh from what she could gather.

“Fine. Do what you want. I’ll just sit here and twiddle my thumbs while you’re gone, like a good little wife!” she shouted. She grabbed the linen basket off the floor and moved to stalk past him. When she reached the door she paused, her chest heaving with shallow breaths and her heart racing. What on earth were they fighting about? Was it Benjamin’s presence bringing so much strife between them? She heard him let out a long sigh and then felt his presence at her side.

“Here. Let me help you,” he said, his voice strained.

“All right,” she agreed. She handed him the basket. He tucked it under one arm, and cupped her face with his free hand.

“A good little wife, hmm?”

She smiled despite her annoyance. When he kissed her, relief flooded through her. They would not part angry at each other.

“As always,” she murmured.

Winn

It had been nearly two years since the Great Assault. Although his uncle, the Weroance Opechancanough had envisioned it would drive the English back across the sea, the coordinated effort served only to worsen conditions for both the Indians and the English. As Winn and Chetan rode through the lands of Tsenacommacah to the village of Mattanock, he felt a growing sense of dread. Perhaps it was his imagination, or only his own bitterness, but he could swear the songs of the birds had deserted the Powhatan lands, and the very earth they rode on wept for a time long destroyed. He knew Chetan noticed it as well, as the hollow tap of hooves on packed clay emitted the only sound in the forest.

The village looked worse than before. The Nansemond were a peaceful people, but nevertheless they had supported Opechancanough in his war and they had paid the price. As they rode through the fields, he could see the crops were minimal, hardly enough to sustain a family such as Winn’s, let alone a village of hungry people. What food they managed to grow without being burned by the English he did not know, but if the sight of the soot-blackened fields was an indication, he suspected it was not much. Winn could still smell the smoke from the most recent burning.

He saw Chetan bow his head as they passed through the fields, his brother’s stout body nodding with the rhythm of his pony. It was brisk again at night as fall descended and Chetan wore a fur-lined cloak Cormaic had gifted to him. It was decorated with the strange rune marks the Norse used on everything, and knew Chetan would wear it proudly among the Indians. No one would dare question Chetan.

A group of children rang out welcome when they arrived, and as he listened to the joyful cries and laughter Winn felt an ache in his chest. He had lived in Mattanock with the Nansemond for a time, and although to some he had never been truly accepted, he had been treated fairly. For a fleeting moment he recalled how Pepamhu had branded part of the tattoo on his torso, and his hand reached down to cover it as if by reflex. It no longer ached, but it marked him.

Pepamhu came forth to greet them, flanked by his mother. She looked older than he remembered, her face thinner than he recalled and her clothes fitting loose about her body. Pepamhu, however, retained his lean disposition, appearing younger than his years. His physique still reflected a man who trained daily with his warriors, always prepared to face the next threat to his people. After the children took the ponies, Winn and Chetan bowed in respectful greeting to the brave. Winn was glad to see the man Maggie called his ‘step-father’ and he knew Chetan was happy to visit as well.

“It has been too long, my sons,” Pepamhu said, clapping his hand down on Chetan’s shoulder as he glanced at Winn. “I hope your journey was peaceful.”

“It was,” Winn agreed. His mother stood quietly at Pepamhu’s side and Winn gave her a tiny smile. She would wait to be spoken to. He wondered briefly if his wife would ever behave as his mother did, but shook the thought from his mind. No, Maggie did not have a submissive bone in her body, and he would want it no other way. Despite their differences, he loved her spirit and would not wish it dampened.

When Pepamhu motioned for them to follow, his mother reached out and touched his arm as he passed, dipping her head down. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and continued inside the Great Yehakin with her husband. Winn would find her after speaking with Pepamhu. Women were not permitted inside when the men gathered, but he knew he would see her after they spoke.

A handful elder tribesmen were gathered inside when they sat down. There was a high platform in the corner which remained empty, reserved for the times the Weroance visited the village. Pepamhu was a leader by his skill in negotiation; he spoke several languages as well as Winn did, and he had a talent for securing peace between enemies when all else had failed. Mattanock had lost its minor Weroance not long after the Great Assault, as many of the tribes had, and they had not recovered the strength of their numbers. Winn noticed a few Tassantassas among the villagers, which was not unheard of, especially since the Nansemond had claimed several English prisoners on the day of the Great Assault. Winn wondered which woman was the one to be returned to the English in trade.

“Hupotam,” Pepamhu said, holding out a pipe in offering. Winn nodded briefly as he received it, taking a long, slow inhale of the sweet smoke before he passed it to Chetan. It had been months since he enjoyed such things, and although it never crossed his mind to miss it, his spirit lifted as the tingle settled through his blood. As he exhaled, his limbs felt heavy and he relaxed forward to rest his arms on his upraised knees.

“You come for the English woman. She is not happy to leave, but she will go with you. Governor Wyatt has given much in exchange, so we will honor the trade,” Pepamhu said. The others in the circle continued to pass the pipe, the tangy smoke a cloud around their heads as they murmured in agreement.

“Good. We will leave when the sun rises. I wish to return to my family without delay,” Winn answered.

“How is your Red Woman? And your daughter?”

The pipe made rounds back to him and he gladly took it. It was a powerful blend, causing a ripple of numbness to creep over his skin.

“They are well. We stay with Pale Feather’s people for now. I know not when we will leave them.”

The murmurs abruptly ceased, and all heads turned toward Winn. Pepamhu made a coarse grunting command at the elder tribesmen and they resumed speaking amongst themselves, but Winn felt the unease among them. Yes, his wife was safe, according to the order of Opechancanough, but the Powhatans had hunted the Time Walkers for too long to forget. Although the Nansemond elders knew of the Norse village, speaking of it aloud was another matter entirely.

Winn straightened his back. He would not cower to them over the Tassantassas blood he bore, as he once had. He was no longer that young brave who sought such approval.

“So Pale Feather has returned, and you join them in their village.”

“For now.”

Chetan leaned in toward them, his voice low.

“His father is Chief of the Norsemen, and a good fighter. They call Winn Jarl now. Jarl Winn, Jarl Winn,” Chetan chuckled. Winn scowled at his brother as Pepamhu grinned.

“Pale Feather was a great warrior, for a Tassantassas,” Pepamhu agreed. “I see you still have two arms, and two legs. Was your father a worthy fighter?”

Winn’s eyes narrowed. His mother’s husband had been the closest thing Winn ever knew to a father, and Pepamhu was well aware of the anger Winn held toward the man who sired him. To see Chetan and Pepamhu make light of it caused his arms to clench and his back to stiffen once more.

“He fights well, but I am better,” Winn muttered through gritted teeth. “Perhaps I should show you, Chetan.”

Chetan rolled his eyes and plucked the pipe from Winn’s hands.

“Now, or later, brother? I think you forget the strength of my fist,” Chetan smirked. Pepamhu laughed aloud, jabbing Winn in the ribs with a bony elbow.

“Ah, enough, the two of you!” he said. “There is much to speak of tonight. Your sister, she is well?”

Winn nodded.

“She seems so,” Winn replied, eager to change the topic of the discussion.

“It is time to see her back to her mother. The warrior Osawas has given many gifts for her hand, so she must return here to marry him,” Pepamhu said.

Winn’s head jerked up.

“Osawas of Weanock?” Winn asked. “To Teyas? She is to be married?”

“She is too long without a husband. Would you have her stay with your family, with no hope for a husband of her own? It will make her mother happy to see this match. It will please me as well,” Pepamhu answered.

Chetan passed Winn the pipe, but he waved his brother off. He had no idea if Teyas wished to marry or not, but he had learned something of the ways of women after watching his wife and sister over the last two years. They had a strong bond, one which would pain them terribly to break. Yet if Teyas left to live with the Weanock, she must leave alone. It was at least five days ride to Weanock, and that meant it would be a very long time between visits. How he would break such news to his sister and his wife he did not know.

“I know she must have a husband. But she has grown attached to my wife, and I fear they will not wish to part.”

Pepamhu raised a brow.

“Then you must show them the way,” he said. “Return here with Teyas after you exchange the English prisoner. Osawas will arrive with his family, and I want my daughter here to welcome them.”

Winn opened his mouth for a moment and then closed it. Chetan uttered a low cough, clearing his throat and exhaling a long breath of smoke. Chetan leaned forward, pushing Winn aside.

“We will see our sister home, father. Do not worry. It is a great match,” Chetan murmured, casting a sideways glance at Winn.

Pepamhu nodded, and they resumed sharing the pipe in silence.

Winn spotted his mother walking toward him as he made way to the Great Fire. He shook his head a bit to clear the remnants of the smoke, feeling his stomach rumble as the scent of fresh cooked meat filled his nostrils. At least he would enjoy a good meal before he returned to the Norse, and perhaps have a few words with his mother. He did not wish to upset her, but he thought she would want to know that Pale Feather returned.

“My son,” she said softly, bowing her head down before him. He placed both hands on her shoulders and pulled her gently upward, shaking his head.

“No, mother, please rise,” he insisted. She smiled as he kissed her cheek.

“It has been too long. How is Kwetii? Does she have a new name yet? And Ahi Kekeleksu? I miss the children.”

“They grow fast, like weeds in a swamp. Kwetii has the look of her mother, and a temper to match,” he grinned. Chulensak Asuwak laughed, her weathered face creased in a grin over her small white teeth.

“What color grows her hair?” she asked.

“Still black as a raven. At least she has that much of me.”

They walked side by side to the Great Fire, where the entire village was gathered for the meal. He noticed Chetan sitting with Pepamhu, deep in conversation. The warrior had always favored Chetan, and although Pepamhu claimed Winn as a son, Winn had known he was different. Chetan looked much like Pepamhu. Short, stout, with a squared stubborn jaw and almond-shaped brown eyes, the men shared many traits. For a moment, Winn was reminded of how Benjamin resembled Marcus.

Perhaps someday he would have a son with Maggie, one who might share his features in the same way. With all the future talk and bleak predictions, it seemed a simple thing to hope for, yet it comforted him to think of such base desires for their lives.

“And Pale Feather? He has returned to you?” Chulensak Asuwak murmured.

Winn nodded.

“I know not why you married him, mother. He is nothing like us.”

She smiled, casting her soft brown eyes downward, her face holding a secret amusement he wondered if she would share.

“Your father was kind to me, and a good husband. Would you hear now why we were married, my stubborn son?”

“No,” he muttered.

She stopped walking and grabbed his wrist, her fingers wrapped in a surprisingly tight grip.

“Pepamhu was always the man of my heart. Your uncle forbid us to marry, and he arranged Pepamhu’s marriage to another woman. Opechancanough thought he must control everything, even the heart of his sister. You should know no man can sway a woman’s heart once it has set.”

“Stop, mother, I do not wish to hear this.”

“You will hear it!” she hissed, stomping her foot so that even her long braid shook. “I disobeyed your uncle, and I met with Pepamhu. Even though he was married, and it was wrong, I met with him. One day, a warrior found me leaving Pepamhu, and he told Opechancanough. I was to be shamed before the village for meeting with a married man…and my brother wished to see Pepamhu dead for my shame.”

“You make no sense. Then why Pale Feather? Why did you wed him?” Winn snapped, listening to her tirade despite his agitation.

“Pale Feather went to Opechancanough, in front of the entire village. Your father claimed it was him that I met in the woods that day, not Pepamhu. My brother accepted his claim, and he arranged our marriage that day. Pepamhu was saved from death, and my shame was spared. Pale Feather is a good man, no matter what you think of his absence. I would have remained his loyal wife, if he had stayed here in this time.”

“But you say you wanted Pepamhu.”

“Yes, I did. He has always held my heart. When my brother ordered the death of the Time Walkers, we helped them in secret. Some were able to get away, they are the ones that you stay with now. Pale Feather was trapped here, with me, and a few others he wished to protect. Pepamhu helped him hide until he could use his Bloodstone magic to leave. Your father gave Pepamhu all the wealth he owned before he left, so that Pepamhu could take me as a second wife.”

Winn fell silent. Never could he have imagined Marcus was such a selfless man. All his life he had thought of his father as a deserter, a coward, no better than any English scum. Yet if what his mother said was true, it seemed the man had sacrificed much more than many a man could bear.

“Are you so different from your father?” she asked quietly. He raised his eyes to hers, chagrined by the twinkle of mischief he noted there when the matter between them was so serious.

“We are nothing alike,” he answered.

“Humph,” she smiled. “You shall see. So you will stay with the Norsemen. I hear Pale Feather is a brave leader to them, he will be proud to have you by his side.”

“I have made no such decision. My future lies where it is safe for my family, and I am not certain the village is that place.”

“Winkeohkwet,” she said, squeezing his hand. “You belong to more than one place, and there is no shame in that. I only see shame in a man who will not embrace his true path. Do not let your anger stray your journey. I fear you will regret it if you do. Please think on that before you decide.”

“Fine. I will think on it. Go join the women,” he mumbled.

He kissed his mother on her upraised cheek, and then left her to join the men.

Winn and Chetan escorted the English captive back to Jamestown without incident, and then rode up on the isolated farm where Finola lived and worked. It was far enough away from the city that it appeared clean and tidy, unlike the squalor those inside the palisades seemed to enjoy living in. It was a working farm, with a large barn housing a small trading post, one they visited often. It was the safest place for outsiders like Winn to obtain the few items they needed, and whenever they visited they could see that Finola was faring well. This time, however, she did not run out to greet them, and when only a servant boy stood in the yard, he felt a twinge of unease.

“Where is the healer today, boy?” Winn asked.

The tow-headed youth scowled at him and snatched the reins with grubby hands. His threadbare breeches were torn at both knees, and his shirt, which may have been white at one time, was tattered at the cuffs and hemline. Winn wondered if the English had any care at all for the well-being of their servants. At least the Indians saw their captives fed and clothed properly.

“She’s taken ill. Aren’t ye her blood kin? My master will be glad to see ye.”

“Ill? How so? Why did he not send for us?” Winn replied, his ire rising. If his grandmother had been ill, the blasted English should have sent word. He should not be surprised at their incompetence, but still it angered him.

“She won’t move or eat. Maybe an apoplexy. She just stares at ye, sometime she speaks in tongues. Might be the devil himself.”

Chetan handed his reins to the boy and then followed Winn to the house. James Dobson, Finola’s employer, met them at the door.

“Master Dobson,” Chetan said with a nod when the Englishman admitted them inside. Dobson was a stout man, all portly curves squeezed into an ill-fitting vest, with a dark grey cap stretched tight over his brown hair. He glared crossly at them as he waved them toward the back room.

“Thank our Lord ye’ve come fer her! She’s done nothing but stare fer weeks now, and I’ve had to tend the shop myself. She’s no use to me like this!”

Winn knelt down by her side. Finola sat upright in a chair by the window, her body still and unyielding even as he took her hand. Her pale hair was streaked with more grey than he recalled, strewn down her back with rows of twisted knots. Her blue eyes, once so lively and bright, were empty chasms glazed with a milky white color as she stared out the window into the still yard. She must have seen them arrive, yet even as he clenched her hand, she continued to stare blankly, as if nothing touched her at all.

He leaned closer to peer into her face, noting the stench of her sweat-laden skin and her soiled English dress.

“She speaks to no one. Take her. I had to take on her share of work myself. But ye’ll pay me fer her, she’s cost me much in food and board as she sits there, like a blasted barmy witch!”

Winn dropped Finola’s hand and turned on Master Dobson in a fury. He snatched him by the neck and drove him straight back into the mantle, knocking the man’s head into the wood with a distinct crack.

“You let her suffer like this, sitting in her own filth? And you say I should pay you for your care?” Winn growled. He felt Chetan’s hand on his shoulder and shook it off. Winn released his hold on Dobson, who fell to the ground in a heap. The man’s face swelled up like a ripe melon as he choked and sputtered his indignation.

Chetan gently lifted Finola from the chair, and although his brother remained silent, he could see his nose wrinkle at the stench.

“Ye can’t just come here and take my property, she’s indentured to me!” Dobson shouted.

Winn snatched the knife from his belt and pressed it to the man’s throat.

“Consider her debt paid,” he said, the tip of his knife drawing a bead of blood next to Dobson’s quivering pulse. Dobson wisely kept his mouth shut when Winn dropped his hand.

Chetan carried Finola out of the dwelling. Winn took a quick glance around the room, noting that there was nothing she owned worth taking with them. It would be enough of a journey just to return with her to the village.

His grandmother still held a blank stare as they rode away. She had journeyed to another place, one no man could follow her to. Winn had seen those who entered the spirit world before. For some reason she had passed through to that place, and he knew it would be up to her to return or remain. He noticed she held onto Chetan, but other than that slight protective gesture, she did not stir. What had been done to her, he had no notion, but he hoped she would wake from her journey and tell him.

If only she would give him a word, Winn would be glad to return to Master Dobson and repay his English kindness.

Maggie

While Winn and Chetan were away from the village, she kept as busy as she could. She did not like when they were separated, even for a few days. It seemed like no matter how careful they were, or how much they used her knowledge of the future, they still ran into trouble. She did not regret the decision to remain in the past with Winn, but at times she wondered if was possible to live a peaceful life in the time they had chosen.

She looked at Kwetii as her daughter played with Gwen, and she was certain she did not regret any of it. She was a striking child, with dark wavy hair and a heart-shaped face. Her skin was lighter than her father’s, appearing slightly suntanned against her startling blue eyes, a unique combination no matter what time they lived in. The child spoke words in both Paspahegh and English, and Maggie noticed in the few days they spent with the Norse, she learned the Norse word for no as well.

“Nei! Nei, Da!” Kwetii had cried, begging Winn not to leave. Winn had held the child and whispered into her ear, but Maggie had noticed he was surprised by her use of the Norse language. Kwetii was a clever child who took everything in.

Maggie tended to Benjamin while Gwen prepared a salve. The older woman hoped slathering his head with the thick gooey substance would help his mind heal and let him wake. Maggie was not too hopeful, but she figured it was worth a shot. She was still angry at Marcus for the ease at which he spoke of leaving, so if they could just get Benjamin to wake up, at least that issue would be resolved.

As she filled a pitcher with water by the hearth, she noticed a row of neatly carved figurines on the stone mantle. They were similar in size to her raven, but they looked quite new, with a fresh sheen to the grey metal and few pock-marks like her trinket had. She patted the fold of her skirt where the raven was tucked, relieved to feel it still in her possession. It was a tiny thing, but it mattered to her, being the last remnant of a future life she hoped to share with her daughter someday.

“Where do these things come from, Gwen?” she called. The other woman looked up from her mixing.

“Oh, the charms?” she said. “Erich makes them. He taught yer cousin Cormaic to make them, but the lad’s not interested in such little things.”

“So did Erich make this?” Maggie asked, taking the raven from her pocket. At the sight of the figurine, Gwen stopped mixing and her eyes grew wider.

“Aye, he made this. He gave it to yer mother when she found she was carrying ye. Erich is a Seer as well, ye know, but he will no admit it to ye. He makes these when he has a vision, and only then. I suppose he’s had more visions of late, he’s made more since ye returned than he has in years.”

“What vision did he have for the raven?” she asked, curious to learn all she could of the mysterious magic in her blood. It was rare to get Gwen to open up about it, so if her aunt would continue to answer questions, Maggie would press on.

“Ye know, lamb. A raven, a great black bird, it would protect ye someday. He gave it to Esa, for ye. We all wish to see ye safe, no matter what those blasted men make ye wonder,” she muttered.

“What’s so special about my blood? Aren’t you all Blooded Ones, just like me?” she asked.

“Aye, some of us more than others. But ye have the blood from both yer parents, and that is a very rare thing to us now. Those of us left here have a sprinkling, here and there, but you? Well, you have more power in a drop of yer blood than all of us combined. That is, except fer yer wee miting over there. I suppose she takes that honor now, for want of the Chief’s blood in her veins.”

“But power for what? I can’t do anything!” she sighed, snapping her hands out in front of her in demonstration. She waved her hands, pointed her fingers, and then wiggled her nose like she’d seen a witch on television do once. “See? Nothing. I think you’re all just mixed up.”

Gwen chuckled, bending back to her mixing.

“Do ye know how much power it takes, to send a Longship full of people through time?” Gwen whispered, as if to herself. “Most of us can only travel with a Bloodstone, and then we take only ourselves. You, my dear, ye could take a village with ye, if you meant to. Aye, ye have the power. Yer the one who’s addled.” Maggie opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, not sure exactly what she wanted to say to that revelation. In a reflexive motion, she pressed her hand to the Bloodstone that lay nestled beneath her shift. Gwen shook her head, muttering in Norse.

“Go tend to young Benjamin. Here, take this,” Gwen said, thrusting the bowl of salve at her. Maggie followed her command, her thoughts scattered as Gwen abruptly stopped talking and dismissed her. With her mind distracted due to the tidbits of information, she went to tend Benjamin.

Sitting down beside him, she put her hand on his arm. She looked away to search for a towel, and suddenly felt fingers close around her wrist. She slowly turned to him.

He was awake.

His blue eyes were tinged pink around the edges, his brow creased, and his jaw hung slightly open. His lips looked so parched and dry, she could think of nothing else to do but help him drink. She grabbed a cup, filled it with water, and leaned over to press it to his lips.

He remained silent, his eyes locked on hers as he pushed to a sitting position. She saw him grimace and waver, so she reached out to steady him back to the pillows. He took a few swallows of the cold water, and then ran his tongue over his dry lips.

“Yer verra beautiful today, wife,” he finally said, his voice cracked in a hoarse whisper. She felt her stomach drop at his words and made to pull back, but he caught her hand, surprisingly strong, and held her there.

“Let go of me!” she whispered, yanking away from him. The cup overturned and splashed his bared chest, but he seemed not to notice. She sat back, pulling against his grip and staring into his frantic eyes as if it might jog his delusional memory. He had been asleep too long, however, and after his initial burst of strength, his grip loosened and he dropped her hand.

“I’m not your wife anymore,” she said. He cocked his head slightly to one side.

“Are ye a ghost, then?” he asked.

“No, I’m flesh and blood. I haven’t seen you since Finola and I gave you the Bloodstone,” she whispered. Suddenly his face fell.

“Oh, aye. I remember that.”

He closed his eyes and laid his head back on the pillows.

“Here, drink this,” she stammered, refilling the fallen cup and holding it out to him. He squinted through one partly opened eye and sighed.

“Why are you here?” he asked. She put the cup to his lips and he raised his hand to take it, but when his finger touched her knuckles, he pulled back.

“Your father has been searching for you. He came looking when you never made it to the future,” she said, her words slow and careful. She was uncertain as to how to speak to the man who had once been her husband.

“Was he expecting me?” Benjamin asked.

“Yes. I wrote him a letter. He found it and figured out where, or rather when, we were at. He’s here now, I’m sure he would like to see you awake. You have a lot to catch up on.”

“Is this hell? I’ve gone to hell for using that evil magic, haven’t I?” he whispered.

She subdued the urge to tell him that yes, it was hell, and that he had gone there for his deceitful ways. After all, she had forgiven him, hadn’t she?

“No. It’s not hell. Don’t you remember your father? Or the farm we lived on?” she asked. Yes, he had been a child when the Bloodstone first took him, but he was old enough to recall a few details. Finola once told her Benjamin had arrived half-naked, starving, and mute, but eventually he told Finola fantastical tales about his future time.

“I remember. All of it,” he said softly. “Ye were the last one I saw that day, when I picked up that stone as a boy. And ye were the last one I touched before it took me again, as a man. Aye, I remember.”

His eyes met hers, soft and knowing.

“Ye say yer no longer my wife. Ye found him, then?”

She nodded. She knew who he referred to.

“Be off with ye, Maggie. I need to piss, and it willna be fit fer ye to see,” he mumbled. She tried to contain her smile at the absurdity of his words, seeing how serious he was about the matter, but she failed in her attempt and let out a muffled laugh. After all, they had been married once, and she had seen much more than that.

“Really? Come on now, if you try to sit up by yourself, you’ll fall on your stubborn head! Here, I’ll help you, then I’ll leave you to it,” she laughed. His pale cheeks filled with color, yet his lip turned up in a grin.

Benjamin let her help him sit up and put his feet on the floor. His legs were thin, and he had lost weight all over, but it was his face that was most changed. Covered by a full, black beard, even through the mass of hair she could see the sharp lines of his cheeks and the way his blue eyes seemed hollow in his head. Eyes so much like his brother.

“Oh, damn!” she murmured.

“What?”

“I’m going to fetch your father. Don’t fall over, you’ll split your head. Again,” she said. She left him sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling the curtain behind her as she went. She kicked a piss pot under the curtain, sending it sliding across the floor until it stopped with a thump.

“Thank ye,” he called.

“You’re welcome,” she mumbled.

Maggie updated Gwen on Benjamin’s awakening, and the older woman ran off to find Marcus.

Benjamin took the news surprisingly well. After Marcus entered the cottage to speak with his awakened son, Maggie and Gwen played with Kwetii to keep occupied while the men talked. With a few glances between them, Maggie and Gwen made a silent pact to remain in the adjacent room. Maggie stayed out of curiosity, and she figured Gwen stayed from loyalty to her Chief. The voices started out low, but as the conversation wore on it became louder, and at one point there was a dull thud against the floor.

As Gwen fiddled with some kindling by the fire, Marcus parted the curtain. He stood wide legged, arms flexed, and Maggie could see he shook as if cold. He eyed them up, his face a mixture of confusion and joy.

“Will ye help him? I’ll send Cormaic and Erich to bring him to the hall, but he’s a bit weak still yet,” he said.

“Of course we’ll help him, but do you really think it’s a good idea to get him up so soon? He’s been unconscious for a week,” she answered, crossing her arms over her chest.

She heard Gwen gasp, but ignored her. Maggie knew she was expected to defer to the Chief’s every whim, but for Pete’s sake, he was still the same old Marcus. Marcus ruffled Kwetii on her head as he met Maggie’s questioning gaze.

“The lad wants to meet his kin. It’s about time he takes his place among his people.”

The Northern Hall was louder than it had been the night they arrived, if that was possible. She counted the numbers but rapidly lost track. There were over thirty people joining the celebration, and she knew that was not the whole of them. The crowd was a mash up of cultures, with Indians and Norse living together, and Maggie suspected she heard the inkling of other languages among a few of the men and women. She listened intently to tidbits of conversations around her, and in the days they spent in the company of the Norse she came to realize they had a close relationship with the Nansemond who lived nearby. She imagined it was that alliance that helped keep them hidden in the mountains, essentially undisturbed by the encroaching English settlers. Unless the Norse chose to interact, the village was unlikely to be of interest to the English. It seemed they ventured into town very rarely, trading on occasion with the Indians more than they did with the English. Gwen told her they had settled in the area prior to the arrival of the English, and since they kept to themselves high up away from the James River, they had very little trouble.

Without Winn there, she did not feel up for celebrating, but when both Teyas and Rebecca were excited to go, she decided to join them. Ahi Kekeleksu made friends with a group of boys his age, among them the Indian youth she noticed earlier, and they raced around the Northern Hall screeching and play-fighting. Maggie noticed Makedewa hanging back in the shadows, his eyes following Rebecca, yet he stayed away with the other men while Rebecca carried Kwetii. Cormaic was speaking with Rebecca and fussing over the child as much as a big lug could, and they both laughed as they spoke. Maggie took her tankard and made her way to where Makedewa stood.

“Fire Heart,” he mumbled gruffly with a nod when she approached. His arms were crossed over his lean chest as he watched Rebecca eat with the women. He wore a new vest over his bare torso, made from the thick hide of a brown bear and edged with a knot work of intricate silver thread, a gift from Erich to welcome him to the village.

“You could go sit with her,” she commented. He made a shallow grunting sound.

“I can stand here, just as well,” he replied.

“You’re as stubborn as your brother,” she teased, taking a sip of her drink. He tilted his head a bit and raised an eyebrow at her.

“Hmm. Who is more stubborn, my brother, or his wife? He is much changed from the brother I know.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged, turning back to watch the crowd.

“My brother forgets his people for you. Yet still you cannot be happy. What would you have of him? To live here? With his white brother, whose bed you once shared?”

She froze at his hateful words, her response caught in her dry throat.

“I’m happy as long as I’m with Winn,” she finally whispered.

“My brother is the strongest brave I know. But even he could not bear what you want of him.”

“I’ll go wherever he wants.”

Makedewa sighed as he shook his head.

“No. You will stay here, and Winn will let you. He forgets who he is, for you. With each sunrise I see less of my brother, and more of a Tassantassas in his skin.” Makedewa drained his mug. “If that is what being bound to a woman makes a man, I will stay away. Let her find a Tassantassas to make her happy.”

Her mouth dropped open when he abruptly turned and walked away. His hateful words stung, the truth of it mixed in with his conflicted feelings for Rebecca. She shook her head to clear the rush of tears that threatened, trying to convince herself he did not mean what he said. Yet on some level, she knew he did, and the guilt nipped at her heart.

She took a long gulp of mead and made her way back to the table to join the women, where perhaps the conversation would be more welcoming. She took a seat on the bench next to her aunt.

“Who is that boy?” she asked Gwen, as the Indian youth began to wrestle with Ahi Kekeleksu in the crowd. Gwen was fussing with her kirtle strings which had fallen loose, and she stopped for a moment at Maggie’s question.

“Iain? He’s son to Ellie-dear, by a Chesapeake brave. Some of them stayed here for a bit when the Powhatans attacked. We’ve taken in quite a few stragglers. We’re not the only people who’ve lost their kin,” she said. Maggie raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“Why did he go after the Chesapeake?”

“We heard it was a prophecy. It was the old Chief Powhatan back then, he and his brother Opechancanough were much alike in that way,” Gwen said with a shrug of her shoulders. “A priest said the Chesapeake would rise up against the Powhatan Empire, so he attacked them. We sheltered some of the Chesapeake for a time. Most of them moved on with the Nansemond, but Ellie and Iain stayed with us.”

“Is Ellie-dear here?” Maggie asked.

“Oh, aye. She’s the blond one, sitting near yer sister. Her bairn’s an Indian, like yer husband,” Gwen replied, nodding toward the end of the table where Teyas sat.

Maggie did not know how to respond to that as she looked over at her husband’s sister. Cultural tolerance aside, she was well aware that the Norse were uncharacteristically welcoming to the Indians. Perhaps it was their shared history that bound them, or the need to have allies to survive. Whatever the reason, she was glad for it.

She spotted Ellie-dear sitting beside Teyas, engaged in a discussion. Ellie had long, straight blond hair, pulled demurely back with a single tie at the base of her neck. Her features were delicate, like Rebecca’s, and although Ellie was older, she was clearly English.

“What a pretty lady,” Maggie murmured. Gwen chuckled as Maggie took a bite of bread.

“That Chesapeake brave thought so, too. He took her to wife from that group of Roonok settlers, and she’s lucky to be alive. I think all her kin are dead.”

The bread caught in a dense lump in her throat and Maggie gasped into a choking fit. Gwen thumped her on the back with a closed fist until Maggie was able to suck the air back into her lungs and catch her breath.

“Shoo, slow ye down! Can’t have ye choke yerself into the grave!” her Aunt chastised. Maggie took a swig of the proffered wine, coughed up more bread, and took another sip.

“Elli’s from Roanoke?” she sputtered.

“Nay, I said Roonok. The English left a few of their people on the Island early on, and they right starved to death until the Chesapeake took them in. Elli-dear’s one of them. Her ma died when she was still a wee thing, so they called her by her ma’s name. Eleanor,” Gwen mused, “Eleanor died early on. Terrible time, that was.”

“Eleanor Dare,” she whispered. The lost colonists, starved and desolate, had sought shelter with the local Indians, just as historians had suggested. She recalled no one knew for sure what happened to them. Some surmised they went to the Chesapeake, others believed they went to the Croatoan. There were various rumors of blue-eyed, fair-haired people living amongst the Indians, but the reports were unreliable and impossible to verify. Knowing firsthand how those early years of English settlement played out, Maggie was not shocked to hear of whites living among the Indians. Yet the village of Time Walkers had apparently escaped documentation in written history, just the same as the fate of the Roanoke Colony.

With a sinking desperation in her belly, Maggie realized her safety and that of her family was just as tenuous. She could hardly believe she was sharing a meal with Virginia Dare, as the woman’s half-Indian son ran amok in a breechcloth amongst a group of Viking children. The Roanoke Colony had met a gruesome end no matter how history reported it, as evidenced by the lone survivor sitting across the table. Would her family fare any better?

She braced her elbows on the table and rested her forehead in her hands for a moment. Gwen patted her shoulder.

“Ye sick, dear?” Gwen asked. “Ye look like ye’ve had a fright?”

“I’m fine,” Maggie murmured.

Marcus raised his drinking horn to start the celebration, and the crowd responded with a roar. Pounding fists rocked the tables, and a lyre wailed a joyful tune. Her mouth watered as the scent of thick spicy venison rippled through the air, a smoky cloud lingering over the still-smoldering meat laid out on the long table.

Maggie waited to raise her own cup, knowing it was the proper way to behave toward the esteemed chief. She often felt frustrated with the cultural constraints of the time, and becoming acclimated to the Norse way of life was no easy task. The more time she spent in the village, the more she felt she belonged, even when she was expected to defer her opinions to the men around her. As Maggie stared down the table at her kin, she wondered what her life would be like if they settled with the Nansemond. Would she raise a strong, proud, daughter? Or a subservient woman waiting for the next order from a warrior? It was a question only Winn could answer, and she would have to abide by it.

A raucous thud of fists upon the dry wood table roused her thoughts, and she looked up toward the men.

Benjamin sat to the right hand of Marcus, and she could not help noticing it was the place of honor Winn had occupied the day prior. Although Winn was resistant to forging a relationship with Marcus, she was pleased they stopped trying to kill each other. At least that was progress.

Yet as she watched Benjamin sit beside Marcus, reveling in the attention like the long-lost Prince, she wondered how it would affect her husband. He spoke little of his feelings for his father, but Winn had gradually involved himself in the Norse activities within the village and seemed to fit in. She hoped when he returned matters would continue in the same vein.

“May the Gods bless the return of my son. Thank ye, Odin, for waking him from his rest!” Marcus shouted. He raised the horn higher, and then took a long gulp. The men shouted in agreement and the pounding of fists resumed. Erich stood, raising his tankard as well, and although heads turned to listen, there was still a rowdy murmur among the crowd.

“Bless his hard head, yet it might be made of rock! It is good to have ye back, Young Nielsson!”

A roar of laughter ensued, and both Marcus and Benjamin grinned.

“Why, thank ye, Erich, I hear I owe ye a clouting for this lump on my skull,” Benjamin said.

“Aye, ye’ll get your chance, lad. I expect to see ye training as soon as ye get yer fancy arse outta Gwen’s sickbed. Unless ye prefer the women helping ye piss, I’d say it’s time to find another place fer ye to sleep.”

“There’s space among the men, it will suit him fine,” Marcus said.

Maggie suspected they spoke of one of the larger long-houses where the single men slept. Their sleeping accommodations were similar to the Indians in that respect. Marcus, the Chief, slept in his own house, which had previously been occupied by the men. On the day of their arrival, Erich had insisted on giving it to Marcus, and although they argued about it, Erich prevailed. The single men moved to another Long House, and it looked like Benjamin would join them. It seemed the only other way to procure a private space was by being married or by having several children.

Maggie’s emotions toward Benjamin ran the gamut between relief and frustration. Of course, she was glad to see he lived after wondering if the magic of the Bloodstone had taken his life. Although he had lied to keep her as his wife, she vowed to put her anger aside. No good would come of holding onto the past.

Then there was Marcus and Winn to consider as well. She cared enough about Marcus to want his son returned to him, yet it was a confusing desire to see reconciled. Benjamin had been taken from Marcus as a child, and Winn had never known a father. She hoped her old friend wanted to make a relationship with both of the men who were his sons.

After glancing down the table at Kwetii, who was sitting happily with the other women, Maggie left her seat to refill her tankard. As she dipped it in the large oval serving kettle, a familiar shadow fell over her shoulder.

“They have good drink here, at least,” Benjamin said.

She nodded, without turning toward him.

“Vikings know how to make merry,” she agreed. She raised her full tankard to her lips and drank down the brimming rim.

“Would you walk with me for a spot, Maggie? It’s quite loud in here, I canna hear much at all. Mayhap it’s the ringing in my ears, or the mead, I do not know. But I would like to speak with you.”

She wrapped both hand around the tankard and squeezed it as she raised it to her mouth, turning to glare at him. She drained half of it before she spoke.

“No, I will not. I’m glad you’re not dead, but that’s it. I have nothing else to say to you.”

“You need say nothing. I only ask ye to listen.”

She shook her head.

“None of it matters now, just let it go, Benjamin. You have a new life, take it and be happy. Leave me be.”

“I woke up today in a strange place. All these strangers,” he said, his voice strained with emotion as he waved toward the crowd, “they say it was two years past. But for what I know, you were my wife only a sennight ago.”

“If that is what you recall, then you must remember sending me to hang as well!” she whispered.

“I set ye free, didn’t I? I sent ye back to him!”

He took hold of her wrist, and she looked slowly down at it in awe. How dare he put his hands on her!

“Take your hand off me,” she warned him. His throat tensed as he swallowed, and he ran his other hand through his thick black hair.

“Must ye hate me so? I willna harm ye, I only want to talk!”

She shook her hand away, and he released her wrist without further issue.

“My wife says she does not wish to speak to you, Englishman.”

Maggie froze at the sound of Winn’s voice. Winn placed a hand on her shoulder as he joined her, standing by her side to face Benjamin. She tried to edge back to push him away and give them distance, but Winn would have none of it and remained firmly rooted in place. She could only hear the three of them, as if a fog descended around them, and it seemed the other Norse continued their celebration without interruption. Perhaps she could get Winn away before something terrible happened.

“Let’s go, Winn,” she whispered, trying to pull her husband back. Her attempt was unsuccessful, and she felt the muscles of his arm tense beneath her hand. She saw Chetan standing a few feet away and cast him a pleading look, hoping he would intervene before there was bloodshed.

“She can speak with me if she wishes, brother,” Benjamin replied tersely. “By English law, she is still my wife.”

Maggie put herself between the men, but it was too late.

CHAPTER 19

Winn

Winn meant to walk away.

Yet somehow he found his hands around Benjamin’s throat. He slammed the Englishman up against the table, jostling the mead bucket so that a considerable amount of it splashed their feet. The confrontation passed by as a blur, his vision clouded by fury at the sight of his brother near his wife. Benjamin gripped his wrists with more strength than Winn expected, and although his white face paled as Winn squeezed his neck, his brother held a look of quiet anger hooded in his blue eyes.

“Is this how ye treat her, ye bloody savage?” Benjamin groaned through his narrowed airway. Winn frowned and glanced to his side, where he expected Maggie to be. She was a few feet away beside an overturned chair, and Chetan helped her to her feet. Her bright red hair fell about her shoulders in a tangled wave, and she brushed her hand over a scrape on her forearm. He felt a rising heat in the pit of his stomach as he realized he must have shoved her. Winn dropped his hands from Benjamin’s throat and stepped back.

“I’m fine!” she hissed at Chetan, slapping her hands against her skirt to brush off the dust. He wanted nothing more than to finish what he started with his deceitful brother, but seeing what he had done to his wife took the wind from his lungs.

With the last semblance of control he could muster, Winn turned away from Benjamin without answer to his taunt. He swallowed hard when Maggie slipped her hand into his. He could feel her tremble, with anger or fear, he knew not. He only knew Benjamin would not yet face justice for what he had done.

Marcus stood up as Winn took Maggie by the arm and led her away. The Chief observed without intervention as they parted. Winn felt his father’s eyes upon him, but he owed the man nothing and would not acknowledge his silent question. The altercation had occurred in the corner away from prying ears, the music and celebration continuing on as if no disturbance had occurred. Marcus watched quietly as Winn left the Northern Hall.

“Winn?” she asked softly. “Kwetii is with Teyas–”

He swung around and barked a command to Chetan, who grunted a curse at him in reply, yet returned to stay with Kwetii nonetheless. Chetan would watch over the women and children and see them safely to their Long House when they finished the meal. For all his bluster, Winn knew Chetan could see how angry he was, and he was grateful to have the kinship of his true brother.

His blood brother, his family. Chetan and Makedewa, they were the ones he knew would never betray him, who would stand at his side no matter what the cost. The sniveling Englishman inside? Well, he knew nothing of true brotherhood. The fact that they shared a father was of no consequence.

“Leave her with my sister. Chetan and Makedewa will see to them,” he snapped. He saw Maggie flinch, her mouth falling open at his tone.

“Fine,” she said. Her voice wavered, and she made a point of walking faster so that she reached the Long House before he did. He tried to slow his breathing as he followed her, making the effort to calm his irritation so that they might speak. It caused nothing but grief when they railed at each other in anger, and he needed to speak with her on other matters. Benjamin was a complication, one which Winn saw as temporary.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his fists clenched at his sides. Once they entered the dark Long House, she began to rifle through a basket of linens. She pulled out a long drying cloth and a cake of soap Gwen had given her, and then produced a bone-handled comb.

“If Teyas is babysitting, I’m going to take a bath. It’s not like I get much time to myself,” she said. “It’s call de-stressing. I need to think.” He frowned.

“You can’t go to the river alone.”

“I’m not. Gwen showed me the bath house, I’m going to try it out.”

He raised an eyebrow, his curiosity peaked. Bathing inside a house? Perhaps he would escort her.

“I will see you there,” he snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. She shrugged. Gathering her bundle in her arms, she left the Long House and he followed her. “I need to speak with you first. I have news from Pepamhu,” he said.

“Then come on. I’ll let you scrub my back while you talk,” she chirped, casting a sly look over her shoulder. She trudged on toward the edge of the settlement, and soon he could see a miniature Long House nestled into a crop of boulders. The house appeared built on top of the rocks, the roof extending across an overhang and dipping into a crevice, topped by a round smoke hole. When he followed her inside, he was pleased to feel a warm mist heating the space, rising up from a bubbling hot spring inside a nest of boulders.

“Wow. Gwen was right, this is nice. It looks like a whirlpool!” she laughed.

Her attention was on the shallow bath, but his attention was on her. Her laughter was a ringing of bells as she shed her clothes. She lifted her chemise over her head and tossed it on the ground, then shimmied out of her doeskin skirt and dropped it at her feet. His breath caught in his throat as moonlight illuminated her lithe body and she bent to place one tentative toe into the water. She squealed with joy and stepped into the pool, immediately submerging herself. By the time she surfaced, he had already shed his breechcloth and leggings and was stepping down to join her.

It was good to see her laugh. Despite the upheaval in their lives she managed to trudge on, doing her best to care for their daughter and keep their family together, yet he knew it wore on her in ways she would not admit. Her stubborn streak was her greatest strength, and also her weakness, her refusal to give in to despair that which drove her on. As he watched her dip her long red hair back into the water, he wished he could shield her from it all. The last thing he wished to do was tell her about Teyas, and about Finola’s condition. And even worse to think on was his anger at Benjamin—and how his brother’s presence might affect them.

“Ntehem,” he murmured. “Nouwami.”

“I love you, too,” she whispered.

They gently bathed each other, taking care with the fragile silence between them. He recalled she once explained what a chauvinist pig was, and he wondered sometimes if she still thought that of him after all the time they spent together. Yet if his actions angered her, he suspected she would tell him so. At least he had been sure of that a few short weeks past. Since they had arrived in the Norse village, the bond they shared seemed strained, a tenuous thread that might break loose at any moment. Winn hesitated to share the news of Finola…and he had no idea how he would discuss the marriage of his sister.

“Finola is here. We took her from her English master,” he finally admitted as they walked back toward their Long House after their bath.

“She’s here? Can I see her?”

Winn was afraid she would ask, and he would not deny her.

“She is not well, ntehem. Perhaps wait until tomorrow to see her. Gwen cares for her now, I am sure she is sleeping.”

“I just want to say hello, we won’t stay long. Come on,” she insisted, taking his hand firmly as she broke into a faster pace toward Gwen’s house.

“And what do you mean, you took her from the English?” she muttered. Maggie thrust the door open unannounced, obviously expecting a different sight than what greeted her. Instead, he watched, unable to soothe her, as her face crumpled. Finola looked worse than before. There was no way to hide it.

“What happened to her?” Maggie whispered. Winn stood helplessly by as she went to Finola. Gwen muttered something low under her breath in what sounded like her Norse language, shaking her head. The older woman looked strained, her face weary as she watched them.

“She’s had a fright, I think,” Gwen answered.

Finola stared forward, even as Maggie squeezed her hand. At least Gwen had bathed her, so in that respect her care had improved. He wondered if anything could be done to help her.

“What is wrong with her eyes?” Maggie asked. Winn had noticed it earlier. Finola’s eyes, once a clear blue like his own, now clouded near white in color with only a hint of their former luster.

“I’ve only seen it once before, when a Seer left this earth on a journey. When a Seer knows too much, it can haunt her. Sometimes the visions can take her away, and she cannot return.”

“So she’ll wake up soon, then?” Maggie asked.

“It was a man I saw it happen to, and nay, he did not wake. I am sorry, lamb,” Gwen spoke. “Can ye imagine, knowing what will happen to those you love, yet having no power to stop it? She must have seen something dreadful. Aye, I think she is on her own journey for now. Pray Odin will not welcome her at his table just yet.”

Winn took his wife by the shoulders and gently urged her away. For once, she let him guide her.

“You will tell us if she wakes?” Winn said to Gwen.

“Aye, ye and my Chief. Without delay.”

Later, when they returned to the Long House, they lay nestled together under the furs with Kwetii sleeping peacefully nearby. His wife was silent, which was unusual for her, and although he knew the events of the day wore heavy on her, he did not expect her silence. She laid her head in the bend of his arm and pressed her lips against his chest, her breathing shallow as if she were near sleep.

“We should leave within a sennight,” he said. He felt her breathing catch, and her hand resting on his belly slowly clenched into a fist.

“Finola can’t travel,” she quickly answered.

“She will stay here with my father.”

“You’re important to these people. We can stay here among them,” she replied.

“My father has his true son returned to him. It is time we go.”

His muscles tightened and he felt his ire rise at her words. Did she truly wish to remain with the Norse? As if he had not shown enough restraint yet, did she ask more of him?

“These are your people, too. And mine,” she added.

His mouth felt dry. Of course, she would want to stay with her kin, as well as Marcus. He could not fault her for that, but it still angered him. There was nothing for him among the Norse, except to stay as the ill-favored son of a Time Walker Chieftain. For a time he thought perhaps they could make a life with the Norse, since even Chetan and Makedewa fit in well with the warriors, but having Benjamin there changed things entirely. Winn heard the words his father spoke, and although he understood the reasoning, he could not forgive him the intent. He thought of the words often, since that day.

“Would it have mattered, even if you knew of me?” Winn asked.

Marcus hesitated before he spoke.

“Yes, it would have mattered. But still, I would have gone.”

Such things should not trouble a man full-grown, yet it still stung him. Winn would never leave his daughter, nor his wife, not even if the hands of the Great Creator tried to take him from them.

“You seem to like it here. It’s safe, there are plenty of men to defend the village. We could stay here, and never see the English again, or your uncle, either,” she said. He shook his head.

“No.”

“I’m tired of fighting with the English. Is that it? Do you like all the killing, all the fighting?” she asked, suddenly sitting up, her voice rising a pitch. She clutched a fur to her breasts as she confronted him.

“Yes, I have killed many Tassantassas! What of it?” he countered, rising up next to her. He pulled her back to him, wanting her warmth and softness instead of her anger. “Does that make me less of a man to you, that I would spill blood? I tell you now, I would do it again. I would burn down their houses, I would steal from them. I would squeeze the life from their tiny white necks. If needed of me, I would do it. I would do it to keep you. I would take the life of my brother, for you.”

He could see her teeth biting into her bottom lip as he stared into her flashing green eyes. She trembled in his hands.

“I belong to you. Nothing will change that, no matter where we live,” she whispered. His stomach curled and dropped, and he slowly loosened his grip on her.

“Then lay down your fists, and rest your head. When you wake in the morning, you will see your kin. That is all I can promise you.”

He felt her breath leave her body in a sigh as she sank back down into his arms beneath the furs. As she submitted to sleep, he continued to hold her, his eyes focused on the moon above through the smoke hole.

Yes, he would do anything to keep her. Yet what she asked of him was more than he could give. How he would end it, he did not know.

CHAPTER 20

Makedewa

Makedewa glanced up above at the grassy hillside as he walked with his brothers toward the training field. He could see Rebecca’s skirts whipping in the breeze as she chased after the devious Kwetii, who squealed with laughter at the game. He had not spoken with her since that day in Winn’s Long House, and as the time wore on, he became more convinced it was for the best. She seemed to settle in amongst the Norse as if she belonged, and he would not disturb her newfound comfort. Although he ached with jealousy whenever he saw Cormaic or the other men speak to her, he was also proud of her for overcoming her fears. Perhaps as she became stronger in herself, she would grow to trust him as well. It was the only hope he could muster at their situation.

“And you, Makedewa?” Winn called. Makedewa followed a few paces behind Winn and Chetan, lost in his own thoughts as they walked. He jogged to catch up with them when Winn called his name.

“Hmm?” Makedewa asked.

“Will you ride with us to take Teyas to Mattanock? We would leave in a few days,” Winn said as he adjusted the new sword strapped across his back. Makedewa admired Winn’s elaborate weapon, layered with intricate carved rune symbols and inlaid with gemstones along the hilt. It was the weapon of a leader, as his brother should have, being the son of the Norse Chief Pale Feather.

“I will go. Which of us will stay here?” Makedewa answered.

“Marcus will watch over Maggie and Rebecca. I do not wish to take them to Mattanock while the Weanock warriors are there. I fear for trouble if we do so,” Winn said. Chetan nodded in agreement, shrugging his fur clad shoulders.

“I think your wife will not like that,” Makedewa sniped. Winn frowned, squinting a brow downward at him.

“She will do as I ask,” Winn replied.

Chetan and Makedewa both burst into laughter, bringing a flush to Winn’s face with an outraged scowl.

“Humph, Fire Heart will do as you ask? Not likely!” Chetan said with a grin.

Makedewa shoved Winn with the point of his elbow, which his older brother shrugged off with a grunt. Winn appeared angered at the taunt, but Makedewa could see the corner of his mouth twitching as if he wished to laugh.

“Just wait, brother. Wait until you marry Rebecca. You shall see,” Winn mumbled.

“I think that will never happen, so no, I will not see.”

“No reading lessons then?” Chetan asked, his voice alight with a teasing melody.

Makedewa sighed, kicking at a stone on the path. The training field was ahead, filled with the Norse warriors, and the last thing he wanted was to have them hear of his troubles with Rebecca.

“I offered her marriage. She refused me. There is nothing more to it,” Makedewa said evenly.

Winn and Chetan both stopped and turned to him, the joking immediately ceased between them. Makedewa was not a man to speak of personal feelings, and he knew that admitting as much would grab their attention. However, he wished to be out with it so he could cast it aside, before his brothers heard of it from the women. He rushed forward with an explanation before they could formulate any assumptions.

“It is better this way. I was a fool to think on it. She says she does not wish to be a wife to any man.”

“Ah, that’s not true. It is clear she is fond of you,” Chetan said. Makedewa shook his head, his single braid bouncing down his back.

“Maybe. But not enough to be a wife.”

“Perhaps if Maggie speaks with her–” Winn said.

“No. Speak no more of it. It is finished,” he muttered, shaking off the hand that Winn put on his shoulder. Winn closed his fingers into a fist, and with one powerful thrust struck Makedewa a blow in the chest, knocking the breath from his lungs. Winn grabbed Makedewa by both shoulders and shook him hard.

“Then go fight, warrior,” his older brother intoned. Makedewa glared into his face, his brother’s steel blue eyes betraying not even an inch of sorrow for him. He admired that about Winn. His brother was always ready to channel his anger into more meaningful tasks.

He just needed to get the foolish thoughts of Rebecca out of his head. Then he would be back on the path to being the warrior he was meant to be.

Makedewa shoved Winn’s fist away as he gasped for air, and took off into a jog down to the field.

CHAPTER 21

Maggie

Winn kept his promise. They remained in the Norse village, and though Maggie knew it was temporary, she hoped his heart would soften toward his kinsmen. He was a man who rarely showed what lay in his thoughts, but to her it was evident he wished for some compromise to their problem. He did not speak of leaving again. It hung between them, spearing the distance further the more time they remained in the village. She wished the problem would simply evaporate, but since the issue was a living, breathing, human, there was no hope for that.

Benjamin celebrated in his new role as the Chieftain’s son, and by every facet of his behavior, it appeared he planned on staying. Maggie knew the time to leave was approaching fast, but she could not bury that part of herself that wished to stay.

She immersed herself in learning the Norse ways, and was pleased to see Teyas and Rebecca seemed to like the village as well. Of course, it would be that much more difficult when it was time to leave, but at least for the time being they could focus on something other than running from the next threat. They spent time with her aunt Gwen and the other Norse women, and Finola kept her silent vigil sitting by the hearth most days with rarely a word spoken.

It was evident that the village was a blending of cultures, not only by the appearance of the people, but by their habits. Elli-dear’s son was not the only half-brave in the village, and there were a few Norse men married to Indian women. She imagined their lifestyle was a combination of the different worlds. One, from the displaced Chesapeake tribe, and the other from the Old Norse.

Gwen gave bits and pieces of their history, but Maggie had the feeling she held much of it back. Whether it was from loyalty or fear, she did not know, and she would not push the issue. Although Maggie had much to learn of the Norse ways, she already was quite clear on a few things: One did not challenge the newly restored Chief, and one did not mess with magic. In fact, one was much better off forgetting magic existed altogether.

The women spent the day gathering wool on the hills surrounding the training field. As summer drew to a close the weather became less humid, and the manual labor was much easier to accomplish. They broke up in groups to attend to daily chores, some women staying behind in the Northern Hall to start the evening meal while other smaller groups spread out to undertake tasks such as woolgathering and tending the beehives.

The village was larger than she thought when she first arrived. Everything centered on the Northern Hall, with many Long Houses clumped around it. A deep water well stood in front of the Northern Hall, convenient to a small blacksmith’s cottage and several storage houses. Gwen carried the role of healer, Maggie was not sure if it was due to her magical blood or her domineering attitude, but it gave her greater status in the community and as thus, she shared a larger Long House with her husband. The bathhouse was nearly always in use, Maggie recalled with a pleasant flush over her skin. She and Winn had been fortunate to steal a few moments alone there.

Kwetii ran down the hillside, squealing after Rebecca. The child asked often for Ahi Kekeleksu, but since they arrived in the village he spent all his time cavorting with the other youths, his young female cousin momentarily forgotten. Maggie saw Kwetii point toward the training field. The girl had spotted her cousin, who stood watching the men fight.

“He’s busy, Kwetii,” Maggie called.

“Play with Keke!” the girl replied, pointing again with a pout on her round face. Rebecca held an armful of wool above her head, and then dropped it over the toddler. Kwetii laughed as it rained down over her face like soft fuzzy snowflakes. Sufficiently distracted, the child followed Rebecca and helped her return the wool to her burlap sack.

“If ye would like to learn to weave, I can send ye to Sigrun Olafsson. She’s the finest we have,” Gwen called out. Maggie plucked a handful of loose wool from a low lying tree branch and shoved it in her sack.

“That would be nice, I’d like that,” she replied. She did not have the heart to admit to her Aunt that their stay would likely end soon. Maggie looked downhill to the training field, where Winn was in the midst of a fight with Cormaic. The other men stood watching in usual formation, egging them on with whoops and howls. Since the day Winn had beaten her cousin, they had fought each other daily, and last she heard the score was dead even. Both men were formidable warriors, and neither were willing to be the last defeated.

Winn seemed to enjoy sparring with the men, and Maggie wondered how difficult it would be for him to leave them. She knew he still felt the pull of responsibility to the few remaining Paspahegh, and that he still wished to live near the Nansemond village. As much as she wanted to stay with the Norse, she could not ask her husband to abandon the last remnant tying him to the tribe. Yet she wished, someday, he might think of the Norse as his people in the same way. To her, it was the only way to stay clear of the danger to come, especially after learning the fate of the Roanoke Colony. Although she often answered Winn’s questions about the future, he still insisted on making his own way for their family. It was certainly no democracy in their household; Winn would decide where they would settle, and that was the end of it.

“He’s a fine man,” Gwen commented. Caught staring at her husband, Maggie blushed. Sun-darkened skin gleaming, tensed over the striated muscles in his chest and arms, he certainly looked the part of royalty as he raised the heavy sword over his head and sent it crashing down onto Cormaic’s wooden shield. She was surprised to see him wear a pair of wool braies like the other men, long, slim pants tied at the waist with a cord that fit him quite fine. Very fine, in fact.

“Yes, he is,” she murmured. Gwen broke into hearty laughter.

“Aye, I meant my Erich, but yer husband is fetching, too, dear!” the woman giggled. Maggie laughed along with her.

Kwetii let out another shrill cry, and at first Maggie did not recognize it as anything other than playful chatter. When Rebecca picked up the toddler and Kwetii continued to wail, however, she dropped her gathering bag and ran over to meet them.

“What happened?” Maggie asked. Kwetii’s face was screwed up like one round red apple as she cried, tears coursing down her cheeks. Maggie took her from Rebecca’s arms, which quieted her tears a bit, but did not serve to make her much less miserable.

“I think it was a bee. Look, there on her neck,” Rebecca said.

Maggie pushed the child’s gunna aside to reveal the skin of her throat. Near the base of her neck, where she should have a tiny hollow, was instead an angry welt the size of a ripe cherry.

“It’s just a bee sting, sweetling, you’ll be okay,” Maggie soothed her. Kwetii half-sobbed, half-hiccupped.

“Hurts, mama!” Kwetii cried. Maggie was startled to hear the child’s voice come out coarse instead of high-pitched. When Kwetii took in a breath, it made a whistling sound.

“Gwen–do you have something to make this go down? It’s swelling up fast,” Maggie asked, her unease steadily rising. The welt seemed to be growing by the second, and each time Kwetii inhaled or exhaled, she made a peculiar strangled sound.

When Gwen took a look at the swelling and her face lost color, Maggie swallowed back her own panic.

Kwetii had never been stung before. What should have been a simple childhood boo-boo was rapidly turning into an emergency. It seemed her child was allergic to bees, and they had no way to help her as her throat closed off.

“Take her back to the village,” Gwen said.

“Mama?” Kwetii wheezed.

“Hush, sweetheart, hush,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. Kwetii was a solid toddler and carrying her was no easy task, but Maggie cradled her close the best she could as they hurried back to the village.

Kwetii continued to wheeze with every breath as the day wore into night. They tucked her into the cot in Gwen’s Long House where they could best keep watch over her. Finola kept her silence, staring into the fire as she swayed idly in a rocker next to the hearth. It unnerved Maggie to see her in such a state. She would give anything to see the woman break free from her torment and join them again. Even when Gwen bent down and looked into Finola’s eyes, asking her to help Kwetii, Finola still did not stir.

Maggie worried Kwetii would fuss and cause the swelling to worsen, but as the hours passed the sting seemed to take a toll on her little body, and she drifted in and out of sleep. Gwen smeared a thick clay poultice over the sting to ease the swelling, which seemed to help, but the child continued to struggle with every breath despite the efforts. It was all they could do to keep her resting until the swelling subsided.

Epi-pens, she thought. They had epi-pens to fix it in the future. Perhaps she was no better than Marcus. If she could take Kwetii to the future and know it would save her life, would she do it?

Winn placed his hand over hers where it rested at Kwetii’s side.

“Lay down your head,” he said softly.

“I can’t,” she replied. She would not admit to him that she feared the child would stop breathing, and although she remained silent, she knew he could see the tears on her cheeks. The thought of sitting by helplessly as her child died from a simple bee sting was beyond her comprehension.

Her husband uttered a sigh as he rose to his feet, pulling her with him. As she opened her mouth to protest, he touched her lips gently with his thumb and shook his head.

“Stay here. I will return.”

She nodded mutely and watched him leave. She sat back down at the bedside and took Kwetii’s hand. The child uttered a whistling sigh as the breath struggled past her tiny constricted air way, but otherwise did not stir.

When Maggie felt a hand on her shoulder she assumed it was her husband, but she was shocked to discover her assumption was wrong. Although her blue eyes were still glazed a milky white, Finola stood beside her, looking down at Kwetii.

“Fret no longer, dearest. This will pass. The child will live,” the old woman said, her words a harsh utterance through her cracked lips.

“You–you don’t know that,” Maggie stammered. She was torn between terror at seeing Finola standing like a ghost beside her and relief to see her slumber interrupted. Yet the woman she had known was somehow different now, a darker, guarded version of the healer she loved. “Gwen!” Maggie called out.

No matter what the reason for her semi-recovery, the woman was too frail to remain at Kwetii’s bedside. When Gwen entered the room her face paled at the sight.

“Oh, my, sweet Odin! How did she get in here? Fer sure, Finola, come away! It’s no place fer ye here!” Gwen admonished her. Gwen put her arm around Finola’s shoulders and tried to steer her to the door, but the old healer would not budge.

Finola reached out with a thin, wrinkled hand and placed it on Maggie’s arm.

“Kwetii will play with her brother when spring comes. Ye shall see. He will have the eyes of his father, and the spirit of his mother, like this one, here,” Finola murmured, looking down on Kwetii. She touched the child’s cheek with one finger, and then let it drop to her side as Gwen led her back to her chair.

Gwen joined Maggie a few moments later, her skin a fretful pallor as she trembled.

“She looks a fright. I’ve never seen one return from a journey, but perhaps she still has some fight left. It’s the bad visions that send her away from us. Maybe the good visions will steer her back,” Gwen nodded, as if to herself, then patted Maggie softly on her shoulder. “Aye, if she says yer breeding a son, then it is truth. Did ye already know?” Gwen asked.

“No. I–I didn’t know for sure,” Maggie replied quietly.

“Well, now ye know. And ye know yer daughter will be fine soon,” Gwen assured her.

Maggie’s hand slipped down over her belly. She had suspected, but ignored the signs, too wrapped up in the discord of their lives to acknowledge what her body was telling her. Although it gave her comfort to hear the prediction of a healthy son, the glimmer of hope that Kwetii might yet survive was what she focused on.

Winn returned later with a sack in his hands. She glanced up at him through tear-swollen eyes.

“Finola woke and she spoke to me. She said Kwetii will be fine,” she whispered. She did not mention the rest of Finola’s predictions, keeping the news close to her heart for the moment. There would be plenty of time to share it with Winn after Kwetii was healed.

“Gwen told me. Finola is a wise Seer, I am sure she speaks the truth.”

He sank down beside her and took something from the sack. His eyes were hollow beneath his thick brows, creased at the edges as if speaking aloud pained him.

“I bought this for you when we were in town. I meant to give it to you when I returned.”

He handed her a small, leather bound book. It was worn around the edges, but the stitching was intact and it still smelled of tanned hide when she flipped through the pages. It was handmade, with shimmering golden flecks pressed into the paper, and a flat jade colored stone embedded in the cover beneath the etching of a rainbow.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“John Jackson said it belonged to an English Princess. How he came to have it, I do not know, but he parted with it, no less. I thought it might make you smile when you read it to our daughter,” he said softly.

He brushed the tears from her cheek and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You read. We will listen,” he said.

Winn placed the open book on the bed next to Kwetii and thumbed to the first page.

She rested her shoulder against his and started to read. Although she squinted at the scrolled Old English words, she had little difficulty reading the familiar first lines.

“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess. She lived in a grand castle…”

Maggie woke to the sound of a gentle snore. Tiny fingers were twisted in her hair, gently pulling in rhythm with the rise and fall of Kwetii’s chest. It was a purring snore, one she made often when sleeping. The strained whistling sound was gone.

Winn stirred when Maggie moved and she placed two fingers to her lips to silence him as he opened his mouth to speak, his blue eyes wide and hopeful. There would be time later to tell him her news, but for now it would wait as they enjoyed the peaceful slumber of the little girl between them.

“It is time to give her a new name,” he whispered. “She has earned one of her own.”

“I like her name,” Maggie said softly. Winn smiled.

“As do I, but we cannot call her little one forever. She will not like that when she is grown.”

“Do you have another name?” she asked. The question had never occurred to her, even though she knew it was common for the Paspahegh people to have several names throughout their lifetimes.

“Opinkwe,” he said, his voice low. “The boy with a white face,” he added, more as an afterthought to himself rather than to her unasked question. “That is what Opinkwe means. It is my secret name, one I tell no man, lest he take my spirit by calling my true name.”

Her throat tightened at the sadness in his tone. She leaned into his chest and settled back against him, pulling his warm arms around her.

“You, ntehem,” he said as his lips pressed into her hair, “You have no need to call my true name. My spirit is already yours to command.”

She smiled.

“I will hold you to that, warrior,” she answered.

CHAPTER 22

Winn

Winn watched the dancers as the music pounded around them. It was like the Paspahegh dances he was accustomed to in some ways, with a crowd gathered in a circle around those who knew the steps. The rumble of a deep hollow drum pounded out the beat, and the singing of the women along with the squeal of a lyre rounded out the melee. Maggie danced with the other women, swirling past him in her long flowing gunna, her arms locked at the elbows with Teyas as they laughed. The long dress reminded him of the time she spent with the English, and although he knew it was not the same, it still caused a stir of annoyance down deep.

“Erich says you plan to leave. Is there naught I can say to keep ye here?”

Winn eyed his father. He stopped calling him Pale Feather, a title which he could see clearly irritated the man, yet Winn still struggled with how to speak to him. Marcus took a sip from his drinking horn as Winn considered his response.

“Jarl Dagr. Marcus Neilsson. What should I call you, father?” Winn asked as he continued to stare into the crowd. Marcus cleared his throat.

“Dagr Markús Neilsson is the name borne to me. Jarl is by right of blood, as is the title of Chief. Dagr Markús was the name given to me by my father to honor his father. And Neilsson marks me as get of my sire. Call me what ye will.”

“I have only known you as Pale Feather,” Winn replied. He left the rest unspoken.

“Well, the Paspahegh called me that. Use it if ye must, it is only a name.” Marcus drained the last of the mead from his drinking horn and held it out to Winn. “There’s more to these people than ye know. Take this horn. It belonged to my father, and his sire before him. I give it now to you, my eldest son, so that you will know your place here among your people.”

Marcus placed the horn into his hand before Winn could dismiss him. It felt heavy in his grip, warmed by his father’s fist, and he looked down at it in his curiosity. It was the vessel of a king, and Marcus had placed it in his hand.

“I think you hand this to the wrong son,” Winn said, turning it over in his hands before he handed it back to Marcus. Marcus flexed his jaw. They both glanced over to the long table, where Benjamin sat at the head, surrounded by the other men. His brother, nearly a replica of Marcus, laughed along with Erich and Cormaic, as the younger men hung on his every word. Yes, Benjamin had always been a charismatic one. Winn once admired that about him. Winn had also once believed his brother was an honest man, beyond reproach.

“Nay. Keep it. Think on this before you leave. You belong with these people, just as much as ye once belonged to the Paspahegh. Think of yer wife, as well, lad. She has kin here, the same as ye. It willna be an easy life if ye return to the tribe.” Marcus paused, looking toward Maggie as she danced. “Has she told ye much of the future? Of what happens to the tribes?”

“Yes. I know we will be driven from our lands. I know the English will never stop, that they will keep coming from across the sea.”

Winn felt his ire rise, and felt his muscles quiver as he gripped the drinking horn. Marcus waved a hand toward the men at the table.

“Nothing is truly gone. These men you see, their sons will live on, as will their sons. My sons will live on. Someday, your daughter will have daughters, who will survive as we always have. It is about surviving, here, in this place where ye are now, and making a life for yer bairns. We stay here, away from the cities, and someday our children will venture into that world. But not yet, not until the time is right. If I have learned naught from time-travel, I have at least learned that.”

“So running and hiding is how you wish to survive,” Winn said evenly. Over the last few weeks, his father had gained his grudging respect, but perhaps it was misplaced.

“We fight when we must. Yes, we have killed plenty of English. Erich tells me for the most part they stay clear of us here. What issue is there with knowing the future, and using it to keep yer kin safe? It canna be such a bad thing, if we can use it that way.”

“I can keep my kin safe without your magic,” Winn said. He spotted Maggie making her way through the crowd toward them, and Marcus straightened up when he noticed her as well.

“Aye, that ye can, Winn Nielsson. That ye can.” Marcus placed a hand on his shoulder. “Maggie will never be safe amongst the Powhatan, no matter what yer uncle has promised ye. Think on it before you make yer choice.”

Winn covered his scowl when Maggie launched herself into his arms. She laughed as he swirled her around, burying his face in her soft auburn hair to inhale her sweet honeysuckle scent. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with mischief as she glanced back and forth between him and Marcus.

“Why aren’t you dancing? Does the brooding Viking have you stuck in some dull conversation?” she asked him, wrapping her arms around his waist. He shrugged out of her grasp as Marcus chuckled.

“You dance, I will watch,” he said.

“And ye haven’t seen brooding yet, my lady, if ye think that was it!” Marcus laughed. “I’ll take a turn with ye, if ye insist. I still have moves.”

“Right. Your moves? I know you can’t dance, you old fart. But we can give it a whirl if you want,” she giggled, taking Marcus by the arm. “Oh, wait, let me check on Kwetii first. I’ll be right back. Gwen put her to sleep and I need to say goodnight.”

Maggie dropped a quick kiss on Winn’s cheek and then punched Marcus in the arm before she jaunted off out of the Northern Hall.

“What did she just say?” Winn asked. “And why did she hit you?” The only meaning he gleaned from her utterance was that she was going to check on their daughter. Marcus shrugged as he rubbed his bicep.

“Future talk. I took my oath as protector seriously. Nary a lad put a hand on that hellion if I could help it,” he sighed. “She still has a mean right hook.”

Winn grunted in reply. Marcus clapped him on the shoulder and left him standing there with the drinking horn in his hand. He noticed Chetan dancing with Rebecca in the middle of the crowd, and was not surprised to see Makedewa glaring at them from the corner. When the song paused, Cormaic switched places with Chetan, and suddenly Makedewa went from indifferent annoyance to full-blown fury. Winn saw Makedewa’s eyes narrow at the dancing pair as they flew by. He also noticed the way Cormaic pulled Rebecca a bit closer when they swirled near the men.

He wanted to laugh at his brother, but after seeing how disturbed the younger man was, he decided to join him. Perhaps they would share mead from the exotic drinking horn that now belonged to him.

When Winn reached his brother’s side, Cormaic swung Rebecca so close that her skirts flared out and brushed his knee. He dimmed the grin from his face as Makedewa made a rough snorting sound and proceeded to gulp his drink.

“You should dance with her,” Winn advised his brother.

“Warriors do not dance like that,” Makedewa barked.

“I see many warriors here dancing. One with your woman,” Winn replied, his brow raised slightly.

“She is not my woman. She can dance with that Viking if she wishes. I could take him in battle with nothing but my fists,” Makedewa muttered.

“Then fight him. I will tell him you challenge him on the field tomorrow.”

“Fine. Do it.”

Makedewa dumped out what was left of his mead as he watched the dancers. Chetan walked up and gave him a hearty shove.

“She dances well,” Chetan said.

“Enough!” Makedewa snarled. Winn and Chetan watched him stalk out of the Northern Hall, and the moment he was clear they burst into laughter.

“I have never seen him act this way. Why doesn’t he speak to her and be done with it?” Winn asked. Chetan took the drinking horn Winn held and turned it over, examining it as he shrugged.

“I think he should bed her,” Chetan replied, “Before he loses his opomens.”

Winn grinned at the slur. Chetan used many of the taunts Maggie taught him from the future. Lose his balls, indeed.

As Chetan went off to fill the drinking horn, Winn looked over to the long table where Marcus sat. Did his customs mean he could not let his brother drink from the horn? Yet Marcus had offered it to both Winn and Maggie on the first night of their arrival, so he could see no error in letting Chetan drink from it. If there were rules attached to the object, his father should have advised him of such before he gifted it.

“Here, Jarl Winn,” Chetan said when he returned, thrusting the horn at him as Winn scowled. “What? The others call you such. They say you are Jarl here, as is your father.”

“Enough, brother,” Winn said. He looked around for Maggie, who had not returned. It had been long enough to bid their daughter goodnight, so he decided to check on them both. “Hold that for me. I will be back.”

Chetan shrugged and took a drink from the horn.

“Find Makedewa. Tell him to stop acting a fool and return. Tell him his woman misses him,” Chetan laughed.

Winn shook his head as he left and mumbled a retort to his brother. Rebecca was dancing happily with Cormaic, just as when Makedewa had left. Even if he found Makedewa, the last thing Winn would do was tell him to return.

Winn followed the gravel path through the village toward the Long House he shared with Maggie. The Norse strung blown glass globes from house to house, the orbs filled with lit candles that cast an eerie glow through the courtyard. A crescent shaped moon gave little light overhead, and instead they relied on the candles to illuminate the way. Maggie said it made her feel safe to have the candles burn at night, that it reminded her of streetlights in her own time. It seemed she had known little darkness in the future time the Bloodstone snatched her from.

He slowed his pace as he reached the Long House. The plank door was flung wide, and he heard the murmur of voices inside, one of which was not his daughter.

CHAPTER 23

Maggie

“How dare you follow me?” Maggie shouted. Kwetii moaned in her sleep, and Maggie immediately lowered her voice to a seething hiss. “Do you want Winn to kill you? Is that what you’re about? I won’t stop him, you know, not for one second!”

She stomped her foot for emphasis. Annoyed beyond belief that Benjamin had invaded her space, she did not understand why he could not leave well enough alone. Things had calmed down of late, and Winn appeared to be softening toward the idea of staying. Yet it would take just one stupid move by Benjamin to end her hope, and he was standing in front of her wielding it.

“I dinna come here to fight with ye! I just want a few words with ye, and then I’ll leave ye be! I never see ye without Winn at yer side, and I’d rather not cause more strife between us,” he said. Benjamin ran both hands through his unruly dark curls, clutching the back of his neck as he stared at her.

Maggie crossed her arms over her chest. Fair enough. She supposed she could hear him out. She did not feel that she owed him anything, after the way he lied and schemed, but since she loved his father and his brother, she would give him a few minutes if it would help things.

“Fine. You have two minutes. I need to get back to my husband.”

She saw him flinch.

“Thank ye,” he said. He approached, and she stepped back, shaking her head. He sighed and dropped his hands. “It’s still strange to me, ye know. Seeing ye here, and knowing yer my brother’s wife. But see ye, I must, if I wish to live with my kin, and yes, I do! I do want to be here. Do ye know what it’s like, to have no kin?”

“Of course I do. We played together as children. You know I had no parents, that Marcus was my family! Why do you ask that?”

“Oh, aye. I remember that. You were a foul-mouthed thing even then, I think ye told me to go shit myself or some other nonsense before ye kicked me out of yer hiding place,” he said.

A grin twisted the corner of her lip, unwilling, but definitely there. Yes, she recalled the last time she saw him as a child as well. Flashes of a curly-headed boy that followed her everywhere snuck into her mind, images of the future life they both left behind. Yes, she knew what it was like, to be displaced, to feel alone in another time. It was one reason she had married Benjamin when she thought Winn was dead.

“Did you come here to talk about that life, or this one?” she asked softly.

“Maybe both. I know not what to say to ye. I wish ye to know there will be no trouble from me. That bloody magic stone is something I never wish to see again, but at least it has returned me to the place I belong. It feels right, to have a place, I mean. A place to belong to. I wish that fer ye, as well.”

He coughed, seeming to cover the waver in his voice as he turned to leave.

“I did the best I could fer ye, Maggie. I know I wronged ye, and for that I am sorry. Maybe my heart clouded my judgment, and I’ll pay for it fer all my days. But yer wife to my brother now, and a good brother I will be.”

He ducked through the doorway and left without turning around. Her mouth hung open at his declaration, and she closed it with a snap. She tucked a fur around her sleeping child as she considered his speech.

So Benjamin wanted to mend fences. She thought back on the short time she had spent as his wife. He had been caring and considerate, treading carefully on the tatters of her broken heart as he tried to win her affection. If Winn had truly been dead, she would still be Benjamin’s wife. She looked down on her sleeping daughter and realized that Benjamin would have raised the child as his own. Maggie could not deny that she cared about him, but their relationship was a complicated one. Benjamin was from the future, just as she was, and if not for the Bloodstone magic, they would have grown up together with Marcus on her grandfather’s farm.

Yet reality was that the powerful magic served some other purpose, and both she and Benjamin ended up in the past. Reality was that Benjamin served her up to be hanged as a witch in a jealous fit once he knew Winn was alive. Yes, in the end, Benjamin had saved her, but she was not sure it was enough to restore the friendship they once shared.

What would Winn say to Benjamin’s declaration? Of course, she would tell her husband of the visit. Maggie kissed Kwetii’s forehead and then left to make her way back to the Northern Hall.

Winn was standing with Chetan when she returned, and she noticed Makedewa standing in the corner with a sulking look on his face. She wondered what she had missed. Her husband gave her no time to think further on it, slipping his hand around hers. His fingers twisted into hers, and he squeezed her gently as he raised her knuckles to his lips for a kiss.

“Kwetii?” he asked. She reached over and kissed the edge of his jaw as he pulled her close.

“She’s fine. Winn?” she asked. She needed to tell him of Benjamin’s visit, but when her husband looked down at her with soft eyes and a curious stare, she decided it could wait.

“What is it, ntehem?”

She watched the dancers swirling in circles, their laughter nearly as raucous as the music and drums.

“Nothing,” she answered. “I think I owe Jarl Dagr a dance.”

Winn’s lips brushed her forehead and he released her.

“I will watch. But only him. I will share you with no other,” he murmured. She caught the hint of strain in his blue eyes, but it was a glimmer quickly passed and replaced with a smile. She turned back and kissed him square on the mouth before she danced away, leaving him with a grin on his face.

Maggie left Kwetii in the care of Rebecca the next morning while she prepared to join the women gathering wool. She asked Gwen why they didn’t just shear the sheep, but when Gwen took her to the ridge overlooking the valley where they could see the herd, Maggie understood why. The Norse kept no ordinary sheep. The beasts were twice the size of any she had ever seen, with long, stringy hair and thick bulbous heads adorned with curling ram-like horns. It was easier, and safer, to gather the tufts of wool they left behind each morning than to try to procure it otherwise. Gwen said they all came from three surviving breeding stock that made the first time-travel journey with them to Virginia. She clammed up after that revelation, and Maggie made a mental note to take it up with Marcus. She wanted to know everything about their past, and she was fair tired of everyone acting like it was a taboo subject.

She poked her head inside the door to the Long House Teyas and Rebecca shared with a few other women. Teyas was alone in the house, rolling up garments and placing them in a carrying sack, her long black hair falling loose around her shoulders as she worked.

“Are you coming up to the ridge? Rebecca will stay with Kwetii. I thought we would walk together,” Maggie said.

“Go without me, sister. I must pack if I wish to say goodbye before we leave.”

Maggie bent down and gently took her hand. Tears ran down the younger woman’s face, but she would not raise her red-rimmed brown eyes.

“What are you talking about?” Maggie asked.

“My mother and father have arranged a marriage. Winn will take me to the Nansemond village today. Did he not tell you?” Teyas said.

Maggie shook her head, biting down hard on her lower lip.

“He can’t do that. He wouldn’t,” she replied.

“It is his duty, as it is mine,” Teyas said softly as she closed the sack.

“But without duty, would you still go?”

Teyas bowed her head. Maggie clasped her hands, and they clung together as she cried.

“I am happy to know I will be a wife soon,” Teyas insisted through her tears. Maggie held her as she cried, stifling her own tears in her sister’s hair. Not only was Teyas being taken away, her husband had willfully kept that information from her. Maggie felt the surge of anger and helplessness that often accompanied her through such times. Although Teyas knew she grieved, Teyas could not truly comprehend the anger Maggie felt at the woman being forced into a marriage with a man she did not know. To Teyas, it was a part of life. To Maggie, it was unfathomable.

“I’ll talk to him,” Maggie insisted.

“No! Keep silent, this is no matter for you. You know this!” Teyas said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I am too many summers to go on without a husband. I am lucky Osawas will have me.”

“He is the lucky one!” Maggie snapped. Teyas smiled.

“I hear he is brave. Winn says he has fought with our uncle.”

Maggie flinched at the mention of Opechancanough. He was the last Indian she wished to run into again, yet her family remained tied to him as if bound by shackles instead of blood. Even though she shared her knowledge of the future with her husband, Winn still retained his loyalty to his uncle and felt it best to stay in his favor. Maggie suspected this marriage pact was part of keeping that favor with the tribe, and it stoked her anger to see her husband offer his sister up for the taking. She still did not truly understand the way the Powhatan lived, and she stumbled over embracing their traditions, especially when it came to the role of women and men in society. It was just one more issue driving a wedge between them.

“Where will you live?” Maggie asked. She already knew it would not be with them. It was unlikely Osawas would be willing to leave his tribe to stay with their exiled family, so much so that it was not worth mentioning.

“I know not. My mother lives with Pepamhu now at Mattanock, she is first wife since his old wife died, Winn says. But Osawas is Weanock. Perhaps they will send us to live with his people.”

“Isn’t that far? A five-day ride, at least!”

Teyas made an attempt to smile, but it came out bitter and strained. “Yes, at least that much,” she said.

“I’ll–I’ll go with you. I’ll go pack now,” Maggie said. Teyas grabbed Maggie’s hand.

“He says you must stay here, with Kwetii. He does not trust the Weanock as he does the Nansemond. He fears for your safety.”

“Oh, really? He said that?”

Teyas nodded, her eyes downcast.

“Help me pack, sister,” Teyas whispered.

Maggie handed her another traveling sack. After they finished, Teyas set off to find the women, and Maggie left her to find Winn. With woolgathering temporarily forgotten, and her temper inflamed at her husband keeping information from her, she struggled to slow her breathing before she confronted him.

Was she angrier with him, or with herself? She still needed to tell him of the conversation with Benjamin, but the longer she put it off, the more difficult it was to bring up. Even more important was the news of the babe growing within her, which she was also at loss to reveal. Now with the issue of Teyas clouding her thoughts, she felt like her control over everything was slipping away.

She found him at the ridge, standing with Erich and Marcus, and surprisingly, Benjamin. The brothers stood well apart, however, and did not appear to be engaging in conversation with each other, but even to see them standing on the same patch of soil was enough to give her pause.

Winn wore a lightweight tunic over tight braies like his kinsmen, his new sword protruding from a harness strapped across his back. She noticed he had new boots as well, knee-high leather bound covered with thick fur, with tough soles that protected his feet better than the moccasins did. Unlike some of the other natives, Winn took easily to trying new things, which Maggie suspected was part of his upbringing. His uncle raised him to be an informant, living among the English and various Indian tribes, learning what he could and acclimating to their ways. Winn had a resultant comfort with change, and although he usually migrated back to his breechcloth and leggings, he was willing to try anything once. Seeing him dressed like the others, especially Marcus, gave her a pang of homesickness.

Winn belonged there with his kin, yet soon they would leave.

“What brings ye up here, my lady?” Erich asked when he spotted her trudging up the hill. She lifted the skirt of her gunna above her ankles as she reached the peak, panting a bit with the effort. It was steep rise. Now that she stood next to Erich, it took her breath away. Swirling below was an inlet, with white-capped waves crashing over silvery boulders and the screams of seagulls warning them away from their nests. She clutched her arms around her waist when a breeze whipped up and her hair rippled back off her face.

“Looking for my husband,” she said, stretching her head to peer over the side of the ledge. Winn closed his hand over her wrist.

“You found me. Go back down, I will return soon,” he said. His words were abrupt and his grip on her arm was firm. She noticed Winn glanced at the others, and an unspoken word passed between him and the men. Whatever man scheming they were up to, she would hear it, whether now or later. With her curiosity speeding into overdrive, she tried to pull her wrist away from Winn.

“What’s down there?” she asked. She stood on her toes and arched her chin over Winn’s shoulder, then pulled back with a gasp when she glimpsed the curve of a ship’s bow. “Was that a ship down there? Did you build it? What–”

“Aye, a ship, my lady. No need to worry ye, we’ll no sail yet. Yer husband here must grow his sea-legs first before we set out,” Erich answered. She saw Winn’s jaw tighten and he shot a tense glare at Erich. Benjamin remained silent, observing from afar, but Marcus intervened in his typical overbearing manner. She was rapidly losing patience with his new disposition.

“Go back down, girl. This is no talk fer women!” Marcus snapped.

Maggie’s fists shook as she clenched them tight against her sides. He had never spoken to her in such a way before, and she did not like it one bit. First Winn had betrayed her by planning to take Teyas away. Then Marcus treated her as if she had no worth at all. It was much more than her pride could handle.

“Did you really just say that to me?” she shrieked. “I’m no girl, and I’ll damn well go where I want to, and I– oh, damn it, Winn! Put me down!” she screamed as her husband scooped her into his arms. He spared her the indignity of tossing her over his shoulder, but being carried like a child was just as humiliating. She uttered a slew of curses at him the entire way back to the Long House, where he deposited her, still screeching, into a heap on their bed platform. When he released her, she immediately jumped to her feet, but he took her by both arms and pushed her firmly back down.

“Enough!” he shouted. “You cannot speak to Jarl Dagr like that!”

“Yes, I can!” she insisted.

“Do you have no shame? If you were any other woman–”

“I’ve known him my whole life, I won’t act like he’s some–some King!” she spat.

“He is! He is Chief to these people! He deserves your respect!” He stared hard into her eyes. “You knew him in a different time, in that future you were born to! That means nothing when you stand here, in this time! You are no equal to him!”

“And to you? Am I your equal? Or do I mean nothing to you as well?” she asked, glaring at him as her breath came shallow and rapid.

“You are my wife.”

“What if you had been the one to travel, Winn? What if you ended up in my time? Would you just keep your mouth shut and do what everyone else told you, and never ask any questions? I feel like I have no control of anything, like we could all be killed at any moment, and what can I do about it? Sit here like a fool, waiting for you men to give me permission to act!”

“Do you think I would let harm come to you? To our daughter? Have I not proved that to you?” he asked. His voice was strained, she could hear the edge of hurt betrayed in it. She had not meant to question his manhood, yet she could see the mere suggestion grated at him.

“No. I didn’t say that. I just meant–”

“You think I cannot keep you safe in this time. Is it so safe, where you came from, years from now? Are there no wars, no fighting? Do all men live in peace in this wondrous place?” he asked.

She shook her head. How could she make him understand, without wounding him further?

“No, it’s not perfect. But I had a home, one where I felt safe when I slept at night. Men didn’t kill each other without consequence. I never saw such things, until I came here, Winn.”

“Do you wish to return there?”

“No,” she whispered. “Of course not.”

“Then stay here, until I come for you. I will be back. Do not leave this Long House!” he warned.

“Why? Why should I?” she asked. Did her words have no meaning to him, and would he ever truly understand her fears? She doubted it as he tossed yet another ultimatum at her, as if he dared her to challenge him. “Once again, more orders! Why can’t I go to the ridge?”

“Because I tell you to! You need no other reason!” he roared, punching his fist into the furs beside her. She did not flinch, but she struggled to maintain even breaths as he stared into her eyes. He trapped her between his arms, leaning over her on the platform, his eyes wild.

“What are you men hiding up there?” she whispered.

“It does not concern you.”

“Like you taking Teyas away does not concern me?”

She thought she saw a flicker in his gaze, but it was only for a moment.

“Yes. It does not concern you,” he growled.

“You’re taking Teyas away, to be married, and you won’t even take me with you? You’re an ass!”

He shoved away from the platform, leaving her panting for air. She watched him stalk to the doorway as if he meant to leave, then abruptly turn back to her.

“You. Will. Be here. When I return,” he said evenly, advancing closer with each uttered syllable. She could see the fire reaching his blue eyes, smoldering beneath his thick dark brows. She raised her chin a notch in defiance.

“I will leave if I want to,” she whispered. He was closer, his chest nearly touching hers when she exhaled.

“Then I will tie you,” he replied. She shuddered.

“Try it,” she said, her words much braver than she actually felt. She regretted taunting him, and wished desperately to take back their discord, yet the damage was done and they were too far gone to stop. His hands darted out for her and she slapped at him, lurching backward to get away. He was quicker, easily catching her, but she was lithe as well and twisted in his grasp until they stumbled onto the platform with a thud.

She felt her hip strike the wood edge and the sting of tears at the pain as the breath rushed from her lungs, his body pinning hers to the furs. Her legs and arms were useless, since this was not the first time they had battled and he knew her tricks well. Her head, however, was still free, and when she shook it she made contact with his with a sickening crack. He let out a frustrated groan and she took the opportunity to scramble away. She turned onto her belly and crawled further from him, but he yanked her back a moment later, dashing her escape. He tossed her over onto her back and held her with one hand, glaring at her as blood dripped from his eyebrow.

“Are you finished?” he growled. She was panting shallow, trying to catch her breath.

“Get off of me!”

“No,” he replied, his breaths coming hard and fast. As much as she would like to end their argument, she could not silence the angry words that spilled from her mouth.

“Tie me up then, if you must. Just do it, and go,” she whispered.

She closed her eyes when he pulled the cord from her waist and used it to bind her wrists, leaving her hands tied and useless. He then sat up and moved away from her, resting his arms over his knees as he looked toward the door. She stared at the outline of his back and tried to catch her breath, noting he was just as winded as she.

“Obey me, wife,” he finally said. “I cannot stay here. They expect me to return.”

“Then go,” she said softly. She saw his shoulders sag as he let out a shallow sigh. From where she lay beside him on the furs, she could not see his face, but she could see his head bowed onto his knees and the outline of his tense jaw. “Take Teyas away. Keep your secrets. I’m just your wife. I know what that means.”

His back stiffened.

“You break me, wife,” he said, his voice hoarse and low as he turned back to her. He pulled her into his arms, his eyes shimmering beneath narrowed brows. “You know what it means? It means I want you, as I want water when my lips thirst. As I want food when I have hunger. But this need, this need I have for you–it breaks me. It takes the breath from my chest. It drains the blood from my veins and the spirit from my soul. I cannot be, unless I can be here with you, like this. With our flesh touching and your heart beating here, against mine. I cannot be, not without you.”

He took her wrists in his hands and slowly unwound the binding. The cord dropped to the furs beside them. His thick lashes lowered over his gleaming eyes as he stared at her hands resting in his.

“Rage if you must. Do it here. I will return soon.”

He left the Long House without another glance in her direction, closing the door behind him.

CHAPTER 24

Winn

He found the men where he left them at the crest of the hill. Erich sat alone on a flat rock, idly grinding a stick into a point as he watched the others. He raised an eyebrow at Winn as he approached.

“Settled things, did ye?” Erich said.

“Yes. What has Jarl Dagr decided?” Winn replied, giving his wife’s uncle a nod. He hoped by returning to the conversation at hand, Maggie’s behavior would be dismissed. He was certainly in no mood to discuss it further.

“Nothing yet. I think he waits for ye. Wipe yer head, lad.”

Winn ran the back of his hand over his brow with a scowl, wiping off the smeared dark blood as Erich grinned. Damn that woman.

“She has a temper like her mother, that one,” Erich said.

“So I should thank your MacMhaolian blood for that?” Winn snapped, his words terse despite the attempt to curtail his annoyance. Eric shook his head as he chuckled.

“Well, perhaps not all of it. Her father had a bit of rage to him at times.”

It was the first time anyone had directly spoken of Maggie’s parents in his presence. With his curiosity wearing stronger than his frustration, he focused on his wife’s uncle. For a man who claimed to love his sister, he spoke little of the woman, and it only made sense to Winn that Erich wished to hide something.

“Esa was your sister, but who was my wife’s father? Was he of this tribe as well?” Winn asked. Erich nodded a bit to himself at the question, letting out a long sigh as he considered the ground at his feet.

“My sister was a headstrong woman. I know you see how speaking sense to one like that might not work,” Erich said. His gaze shifted to meet Winn’s, his green eyes seeming hallowed under the depths of his brows, as if the words pained him. “She met Agnarr at a gathering, but he dinna tell her who he was. By the time we knew, it was too late. She was breeding his child. I should have killed him the day we found out, but I dinna. Dagr and I had too much to think on right then, my headstrong sister the least of it, with yer raving uncle calling for all our heads.”

“Did Opechancanough kill Maggie’s father?” Winn asked, hungry for more of the tale.

“No. When I sent Esa away with Dagr, he took his people and left, I know not where he went. Better off. We have no need of his kind,” Erich muttered. The older man waved at Winn, as if dismissal.

“What kind is that?”

“A worthless lucht, that’s his kind. Best keep that to yerself, no need for wee Maggie to hear of it. No sense having her chase the dead.”

“So you know he is dead?”

“He must be. Or he would have come fer Maggie by now,” Erich said quietly. He shook his head back and forth like a wet dog, muttering to himself in his native Norse tongue. “Go see to yer Chief. He waits for your return.” The older man ended the conversation, putting a clear obstruction up to further inquiry.

Winn knew there was much more to the story than the few tidbits he gleaned from Maggie’s uncle, and he made note to follow through on it with his father. For such a loyal clan, they surely had their secrets. Winn looked toward the peak of the hill where his father spoke with the others.

Marcus and Benjamin stood talking with an older man he did not know. He was shorter in stature, dressed like the other Norsemen, with long muddy brown hair tied back at his nape. Although he differed in stature, he held the bearing of a seasoned warrior as he spoke with Marcus, staring boldly at his Chief in a borderline defiant manner.

“Who is that man?” Winn asked with his eyes fixed on the stranger.

“Oh, Old Ivar? He is the last of Chief Drustan’s men. He served yer Da’s father well, but I fear he longs too much for the old ways. He wants to sail to Vinland, no matter what the cost,” Erich replied.

“He seems angered.”

“Aye. He questions the story Dagr tells of the future. He bids to take the ship and sail nonetheless. Do ye think it’s all true? Are the colonies really gone from Vinland?”

Both Maggie and Marcus had relayed tales of the future. Winn knew how painful it was to hear of the demise of the life he was born to. Knowledge of the future was a tricky thing, and the tales could not be taken back once told. Apparently, Ivar was having difficulty hearing the Norse colonies no longer existed in Vinland. In fact, the Norse colony in Vinland had been abandoned more than two hundred years before.

“The Chief has no cause to lie. Maggie tells the same story, it is well known in the time they traveled from. Both Vinland and Greenland are abandoned.”

“So that means there is no colony to travel to. We’ve waited too long to return to our own lands, and we have built this ship for naught.” Erich stabbed the pointed stick into the ground at his feet and stood up. “Thank Odin Chief Dagr returned. He’s a bloody fool fer using that magic, but he saved our people from certain death by it. Without him we surely would be adrift, looking for a place no longer there.”

“Will you stay here?” Winn asked.

“If Dagr thinks we must. I care naught as long as our kin is safe and we have food in our bellies. I’m getting too old for new adventures, no less. Aye, I can be a farmer, like the Englishmen.”

Winn glanced over at Marcus. The men had listened to his tales of the future, but he could see the unease in their faces as they regarded their Chief. Even Benjamin looked disturbed. When the men had gathered on the ridge to meet with the Chief, Benjamin had kept a careful distance. One son to the right, one to the left. Winn would respect their customs, as he had learned to do throughout the years, yet suddenly it had become much more than regard for another man’s beliefs. There was a part of him that wished for the kinship, to have a duty and purpose to his own people again. The last of the Paspahegh had been settled among other tribes, yet Winn and his family drifted from place to place seeking a home.

If not for Benjamin, Winn could see forming an alliance with the Norse. He had grown a grudging respect for Marcus, despite their differences, and Winn knew the man would protect his family to the death. Yet living alongside Benjamin was something he could not do. How could he live peacefully with his brother, the man who had stolen his wife and left him for dead? Even if Maggie had forgiven him, Winn feared he did not have it in his blood to move on.

“Winn, a word with ye?”

Marcus approached, leaving Benjamin with the others. With a glance at Marcus, Erich stood and joined the group, giving them privacy. Winn saw something pass between the two men. It was a quick dip of Erich’s chin, and the hardening of Marcus’s jaw, slight yet noticeable.

“You will not let them sail, will you?” Winn asked. Marcus shook his head.

“No. The colonies are long gone. We must make our future here, in this land. We’ve been farmers before, we can do it again.” Marcus waved Winn to sit, and then joined him on the log. His father sat with his hands braced on his knees for a moment, staring ahead at the other men gathered overlooking the inlet.

“I must tell ye something of the future, and ye must listen to me,” Marcus said.

“Then speak. The men wait for you,” Winn replied.

“We took Maggie’s mother away to protect her. Maggie bears the last blood of the most powerful of us, she is the key to keeping the blood alive. Old Malcolm and I thought someday she would wed my son, and the Blooded Ones would live on through them.”

“A fine plan,” Winn snorted. “And the wrong son found her.”

“Nay, not the wrong son. It turned out different than we planned, but it was meant for this way. That blasted woman fell through time to find ye, if that is not destiny, I know not what is.”

Winn pushed his doubts aside for the moment.

“I told ye I found records. That’s how I found ye. What I dinna tell ye was I know when we all meet our end.”

“Do not tell me of our ends,” Winn said quietly.

“But I must.”

“No,” Winn growled, glaring at his father. “What good comes of such knowledge?”

“The good of saving her,” Marcus replied. “If you take her back to the tribes, even the Nansemond, Maggie will die. Your uncle will see her dead, I know this.”

“I do not believe you. My Weroance gave us his blessing. He let her go, when he could have killed her. I have served him faithfully–there is no cause for him to harm her!” Winn shouted, rising to his feet. The others looked back at them curiously, but maintained their distance, the interest evident on their faces.

“You must believe me. I found a story of her death at the hands of Opechancanough. I know not when, but I believe the tale. Leave her here. Stay with these people, make your life here. I beg you, do not return to them.”

Marcus stood as well, running a hand through his hair then settling to clutch the nape of his neck. His father’s eyes, so similar to his own, were fatigued.

Could his tale be true? Had Winn served his uncle all this time, to see his uncle harm his wife in the end? He would not believe it. Especially coming from Marcus, how could he trust him? Perhaps his father meant to keep Winn and his family close with more lies.

“In the future, family and blood mean very little, not like it does here. Now, in this time, to these people, her blood means everything. To have back that which we always protected, when we thought it lost? It gives them purpose again, something we all must have. Do ye know, son, what power she has? What lies in yer daughter’s blood? The blooded MacMhaolians have saved our people more than once, and that magic is our secret to guard,” Marcus said, his gaze focused like a brand into Winn’s.

“There are those that will come for her. I know not when, but I know they will come. They always have, no matter what time our people flee to. I know ye must feel like ye have no choice, son, but ye do. I ask ye to choose us. Take yer place at my side, let these people be yer own.”

His father dropped his hands to his sides and turned away, his brows sheltering his stark grayed eyes.

“I will keep them safe. There is nothing for you to worry on,” Winn finally answered. “Speak to your men. They wait for your word.”

Winn waved his arm at the group of men, and Marcus turned to them. They joined the others without discussing it further.

CHAPTER 25

Rebecca

Rebecca spread her cloak on the grass and her bible beside it. It had been a gift from Makedewa back when she first arrived, spoils she assumed he had taken from the ruins of Martin’s Hundred. She still recalled the devastation of that day to the place she once lived with her English family, the entire town left in a burned out ruin and most of its inhabitants annihilated. A few days after the Massacre, when she had still been in some sort of haze, Makedewa had brought her a sack of gifts. She cried when she saw the items and he quickly left, so she never did properly thank him for his kindness. She wondered if he would ever try to speak to her again after their last encounter. What man would want such a damaged woman as a wife?

“Why do you walk out alone?”

Rebecca looked up, feeling foolish. Too entranced in her thoughts, she had not even heard Teyas approach.

“Only for some time with my own thoughts. The village is too busy today,” she replied with a smile. Rebecca patted the cloak beside her. “Will ye sit with me? I would like your company.”

Teyas squinted up at the afternoon sun, raising her hand to shield her eyes against the glare. Her hair was unbound, long and straight down her narrow back, which was a change from the two black braids she usually wore. She was dressed in a peculiar manner as well, with delicately beaded moccasins and a fresh white doeskin dress. Rebecca had never seen her so dressed before. The garb reminded her of the fine ceremonial attire Winn sometimes wore when he traveled to Jamestown on his duties for his uncle.

“I have little time before I must go. I came to bid you goodbye,” Teyas said softly as she sat down beside her. Her friend’s head was bowed and her eyes hidden under her thick downcast lashes.

“Goodbye? What do ye mean? Maggie said we might stay here, if Winn wishes it so,” Rebecca stammered. Teyas placed a hand over hers.

“No, my friend. Only I must leave. My mother and father have arranged my marriage. My brothers will take me to Mattanock today.”

“But no man has courted ye!”

“He will court me, when we meet. We will have a few days, I think, before I am a wife,” she said.

“Is it always so, for the Indians?” Rebecca asked. “I mean, for you to marry a man you do not know?”

Teyas squeezed her hand, her lips curled up in a smile.

“Sometimes. I hear he is a brave warrior, and he gave many gifts to my mother for this match. I could refuse his pledge, but it would cause my mother shame.”

“Oh, Teyas! I don’t want ye to go!” Rebecca whispered fiercely, throwing her arms around her friend. They rocked together in a tight embrace, and soon she felt her friend’s tears dampen her own cheek.

“Stop it, stop! I am happy to be a wife,” she insisted. They drew away from each other, hands entwined in their laps. Teyas patted her hands, as if soothing herself, then wiped the tears from her cheeks. “You will be a good wife as well. I am sure my new husband will allow me to return for your wedding to my brother. I will see you again.”

Rebecca swallowed back a sob in the midst of trying to stem her tears. She twisted her fingers together in her lap, clutching a handful of her wool skirt.

“Nay, there will be no wedding for me. I will never be a wife to your brother. I am sure he no longer wants to marry me, after our last parting,” she said.

“Rebecca,” Teyas said, her voice trembling. “You have a man who wishes to hold your heart. Do not turn him away. I fear you will regret it someday.”

Rebecca looked up into her friend’s soft brown eyes. Tears glistened on her cheeks, but she was beautiful even so. Rebecca was sure Teyas would make a fine wife. She was strong, confident, and everything a man could desire in a spouse.

Rebecca would regret making Makedewa unhappy more than anything, but she could not admit that to his sister. Teyas pulled her to her feet, and they walked back to the village together.

“Someday, you will see the moon through the trees,” Teyas murmured, tucking her arm through Rebecca’s. Rebecca hugged her, wishing there was some way to make time stand still.

CHAPTER 26

Winn

Winn did not expect her to be in their Long House when he returned, yet she was. His wife and child napped on the sleeping platform, Kwetii curled up against Maggie’s breast with one little fist bunched in her red hair, the sounds of their breathing a gentle snore echoing within the confines of the walls. He felt a tug deep in his chest as he watched them, the two he loved most in the world. As he sat down gently next to them, he wondered if Maggie would wake still angry or if she could see reason.

Reason? Perhaps not. It was not the first time they argued over her place at his side, and he knew it would not be the last. He usually liked to hear stories of how she lived in the future, but when it came to her expectations of what a wife was to a man, he had no patience for it. He heard her words and understood her meaning, yet she expected more of him than just listening. She wanted what she knew marriage to be in the future, but she wanted it with him, in their time. With all they had been through, at least that should be witness to why her desire could not be met, but nothing swayed her. Always defiant, never submissive, he had no desire to smother her fire. He only wished to find some impasse, a way to let her smolder without damage.

This time, however, was different. He still had a duty to his tribe, and he owed Pepamhu his respect. Winn would deliver Teyas as requested, no matter how much he would miss his sister and despite how he wished there was another way. Once he settled Teyas in the village, he would ride onto Jamestown to finish his business with the English. There he would meet the Indian translator, Joseph Benning, and escort him safely to his uncle’s village. Maggie did not know yet that this exchange would mean the end of his service to his uncle, nor that Winn had cultivated it for months. Although it would ease her mind to know his duty to his uncle would soon be satisfied, Winn held that fact close until he could resolve the rest of their issues.

If Maggie knew his ties to the Powhatan Weroance were severed, she would expect them to settle in the Norse village. Yet that was a decision he was not prepared to make. Between her knowledge of future events, and the prediction Marcus made of Maggie’s death, he knew not what path to take. He could only continue to take the risk of their future safety, and that of his family, on his shoulders alone. Seeing his wife bear such responsibility would be intolerable.

Kwetii let out a sweet sigh as he brushed her hair back off her cheek. He felt Maggie stir. Her jade eyes opened, round and swollen from her tears as she stared up at him, and he felt a pang in his belly at the knowledge of her distress.

How he wished he could take her fear away. If only he could banish the uncertainty, give her a foothold, perhaps she would lower her defenses and accept her place beside him.

“Hey,” she said.

“I thought you would be with Teyas.”

“You told me to stay here,” she whispered.

He lowered his eyes as he sighed, nodding.

“Yes. I did,” he agreed. She sat up, shifting her weight so as not to disturb Kwetii. As he realized that she had spent the last few hours alone in their Long House instead of with Teyas, he bit back a harsh retort. Yes, she was stubborn, but he had ordered her to stay. For once, despite her bluster, she had obeyed him.

“Come,” he said gruffly, standing up from the pallet. “Say goodbye to my sister, bring Kwetii.”

He did not wait for her to follow, the hot frustration streaking through him. Knowing he was leaving his wife when things lay unsettled made him bristle. It was difficult enough to honor his duty and take his sister back to the village with the certainty he might never see Teyas again. It was another matter entirely to leave Maggie with whispers of anger between them. He could see the hurt in her eyes, and he knew she did not understand why she must remain behind.

Winn stalked out to the courtyard, where the horses stood ready. Two horses would remain with Teyas, one for her to ride, the other to carry her belongings and to serve as a gift to Pepamhu. Makedewa and Chetan were already mounted, with Ahi Kekeleksu astride his pony beside them. He heard Maggie’s footsteps behind him, but he did not look at her as he checked the straps on his mount.

Maggie and Teyas spoke quietly to each other, and Teyas took Kwetii into her arms. The women seemed resolved to the situation, and although he knew how much it pained his wife, he saw the way Maggie channeled her strength to show Teyas a brave face. With a tearful smile and a few stolen kisses, Teyas mounted her pony.

Winn swung up as well. Maggie stood back from the horses, her eyes rimmed pink but dry. Still sleepy, Kwetii rested on her mother’s hip, seeming blissfully unaware that her Aunt and Father meant to leave. It was unusual for the toddler to let him go silently, but in light of the events of the day he imagined it was better for them all.

His breath hitched when he looked down at Maggie. Her lips parted slightly, then closed, and he could see her jaw tremble as she met his gaze.

“Before the sun sets on the second day, I will return, ntehem,” he said, his voice low, meant for only her ears. “This is the last task I carry out for my uncle. When I return to you, my service to him is over.”

She stared hard at him for a long moment.

“Be safe, warrior,” she finally whispered.

He nodded. His throat was dry, his mouth too tight to speak. He could only acknowledge her with the simple gesture before he turned his horse away.

Those eyes haunted him, as always, seeing through the barrier that shielded his heart. Yes, she was still angry, but simmering beneath that jaded emotion, he could see her fear. When he returned, they would speak on it, find some way to bend the rigid barricade between them before it drove them further apart.

He heard only soft muffled sobs from Teyas as they rode away, yet it was his wife’s image that clouded his visions instead.

CHAPTER 27

Maggie

Maggie watched the men work on a new frame house adjacent to the Northern Hall. It was built in the English style with two stories and a narrow staircase up the middle, sticking up like an ugly cousin among the litter of thatched-roof Long Houses in the village. Benjamin worked to oversee the construction, and although he labored alongside the men, he clearly directed the efforts. It was easy to convince Marcus a two-story house would be the best use of their limited space in the secluded area, so when the growth of their community demanded it, he approved the work.

Maggie and Rebecca remained in the village to tend the meal-fire, while Gwen joined the others gathering honey. After Kwetii’s brush with the bee sting Maggie was still on edge, and although she hoped it was an isolated incident, she was unwilling to risk it by going back to the fields.

The grazing season was nearing end, so the men had driven the herd of cows into a narrow pass above the valley. There they selected which to slaughter, and which to feed throughout the winter. Maggie and Rebecca spent the morning scraping the hides and storing the fat, while the children played nearby. Maggie could see Rebecca found the chore distasteful, but the younger woman carried on with little complaint. She had been even less talkative than usual since Makedewa left with Winn.

“Will they return soon?” Rebecca asked. Maggie tightened the hide over her knee and scraped away in a sweeping motion with her blade.

“Winn said only two days. Maybe tomorrow we will see them,” she assured the younger woman. Rebecca looked wistfully out toward the construction, pausing in her scraping with a hide sprawled over her lap.

“Do ye think he will find a bride there, as well?” Rebecca asked softly. Maggie cocked her head sideways at her, stunned at the question. Although it was clear from both their behaviors that Rebecca and Makedewa missed each other, Rebecca had never verbalized it before. Maggie wondered what had prompted her inquiry.

“No, I don’t think so. I think he means to return to you quickly,” she replied. Rebecca blushed and lowered her head, resuming her scraping with renewed intensity. Maggie smiled.

“Perhaps he should stay. He could find a wife very easily,” she mumbled.

“Why would you say that?”

“No matter.”

Maggie sighed in frustration. She noticed Cormaic and Benjamin had stopped working, and Cormaic leaned on a spade, looking in their direction. He stared at Rebecca across the courtyard as she continued scraping. Both men propped their tools against the new wood frame and started walking toward them.

“Great,” Maggie muttered as the men approached. Cormaic had a mischievous grin on his face, and although Benjamin appeared much less amused, he was still smiling. Both were covered with dust and grime, their skin smeared with the sweat of their labor. Cormaic reached for the bucket of fresh cider Maggie had brought out for the men, but Rebecca jumped to her feet and rationed it out to the men before Maggie could offer it.

“Thank ye, my lady,” Cormaic murmured, his green eyes focused on Rebecca. Maggie saw her skin flush from ears to nape, and although she quickly sat back down and ducked her head to her work, she was clearly unsettled by the exchange.

“It looks good so far,” Maggie said, trying to break the silence.

“Aye. It’ll do fine. I expect the women will like it,” Benjamin agreed. Maggie filled a cup and handed it to Benjamin, who took it with a graceful nod. Maggie kept her eye on her cousin, who openly stared at Rebecca as if he had never seen her before.

“Cormaic?” Maggie said.

“Hmm? What, cousin?”

“The house looks quite fine, I said,” Maggie retorted. She stuck out her foot and stomped on his toe. Cormaic muttered a curse as his attention was drawn away from Rebecca, and Maggie smirked. He kicked a pile of dust her way in a playful manner, and before she knew it the game was on.

“Aye, ye thorny hellcat, it that what ye are about?” he grinned. The last word came out sounding like aboot, and Maggie burst into laughter as she rolled a thin strip of deer hide up and snapped it at him like a bath towel.

“Go on, get out of here! Don’t you have work to do?” she admonished him. He roared when she smacked him with the hide, ducked his head, and grabbed her around the waist.

“I think my cousin needs a dunking! What say ye, Benjamin?” Cormaic laughed, picking Maggie up off her feet. He swung around as if he meant to dump her in the village well and Maggie punched him in the ribs, eliciting a grunt but no release.

“Aye, I think so,” Rebecca piped up. Maggie glared at her.

“Traitor!” Maggie shot back at Rebecca. The younger girl held her lips closed in a tight line, clearly trying to keep from laughing.

“Come on now, enough,” Benjamin interrupted. When Benjamin took her arm and pulled her away from Cormaic, she tried to shrug him off. Benjamin would not be swayed, however, until they had stopped their petty game.

“Ah, let her loose! I fear no simple woman!” Cormaic taunted her. Incensed at hearing Rebecca giggle behind her, Maggie kicked out at her loud-mouthed cousin, causing Benjamin to join the laughter as well.

“Ye should fear this one, she has quite a temper,” Benjamin grinned. “She’d let a lad bleed out before she offered a hand to save ye. Mark my word,” he said with a twinkle in his soft eyes. Maggie elbowed Benjamin hard in the ribs, and he released her. She stood glaring at the two men in mock defiance as she rubbed her wrist.

“I see no work done here.”

They all stopped laughing when Marcus approached, his face stern and not the least bit amused at the antics. Rebecca made a whispered excuse about returning to the Long House, and both Cormaic and Benjamin straightened up as Marcus reached them. Maggie crossed her arms over her chest as she waited for his criticism. It seemed Marcus had turned into some high-handed stranger since they settled in the village, and she did not care for it at all.

Cormaic took a swig of cider as his eyes followed Rebecca. Benjamin dipped his cup for a refill and turned his attention to Marcus.

“Leave the women be, ye have plenty of work to do before nightfall,” Marcus said.

“Aye, just having a drink, no harm,” Cormaic said. Maggie shot him a scowl. If his intent was to impress Rebecca, he had come away looking like a playful fool, and she was glad of it. Rebecca had enough to think about without Cormaic vying for her attention.

Marcus stared hard at Benjamin, who met his gaze with measured return. Maggie sighed and sat back down to her work as Cormaic walked back to the frame-house. Marcus appeared annoyed as he sat down beside her, taking the cup from her hand and pouring himself some cider.

“Well? How’s it coming?” Marcus asked, directing his inquiry at Benjamin, who stood in front of them. Benjamin drained his drink and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. At that moment she was struck by the resemblance, and she wondered how she had not realized it long ago. With his dark curling hair plastered along his neck, and round slate eyes staring at her, Benjamin was the image of his father.

“It goes well. It will be finished in two days time, if the weather holds. Gwen thinks a storm is brewing, so we shall see,” Benjamin answered.

“Good. I expect we will need the space when yer brother returns. Go on, get on with it then, son.”

Benjamin nodded, and she saw the muscles of his throat contract as he looked down at the dirt.

“Aye, well, enjoy yer drink. I’ll see ye at the meal,” Benjamin murmured.

Maggie took the cup Benjamin held out. The corner of his mouth lifted in a grim smile, and then he turned and left. She heard Marcus let out a deep breath beside her as they watched him leave.

“Ye seem to be getting on all right,” Marcus commented. Maggie was taken aback at the implied accusation in his tone.

She dipped her own cup into the cider bucket and took a drink, ignoring his prompt. She did not want to discuss Benjamin with him.

“He dinna trouble ye, did he, Maggie?” Marcus commented.

She looked sideways at him as she drank.

“No. It’s okay. He means no harm,” she replied tersely.

“Sure, he means none.”

“Spit it out. What do you want to know?” she asked, seeing through his fumbling attempts at conversation. It had been a long time since they spoke as friends, and she was certain his inquisition was more than just concern.

“I just worry, that’s all. I have two sons, more than I ever had to lose in my life. And you, and Kwetii– I want ye all here, with me. But I think it might be too much to ask of ye.”

“Why do you say that?” she said softly. Suddenly, as his shoulders sagged and his forehead creased over his thick brows, he looked like the old Marcus again. She felt a pang of regret over her rash anger.

“Can you stay here, with yer husband’s brother looking at ye like that?”

They both glanced across the yard at Benjamin, who was using a hatchet to split a log. As if on cue, he looked over at them, and when he saw Maggie he flashed a smile before he bent back down to work.

“He said he would be no trouble. He promised me that,” she said.

“Well, then, if he promised,” Marcus said, his words trailing off with unspoken doubt.

If she did not forgive Benjamin, how could she expect Winn to do so? Surely it was the only tangible way to move on, for all of them. Yet discussing her feelings for her former husband was too much to share with even Marcus, so she turned the topic to one they could be in agreement on.

“How is Finola today?” she asked, intent on changing the course of their conversation. She knew he had visited his mother several times since the older woman’s arrival, yet Finola had not spoken a word to him.

“Gwen is convinced she’s trapped in her visions. She must see something dreadful, the way she sits there.” He sighed. “I fear she will never be sane again. In our future time, she’d be locked away, fer sure.”

“She might come through. We can’t give up on her,” Maggie said quietly. She placed a hand on his arm, and he covered it with his own briefly before he stood to his feet.

She intended to reassure him, but the pounding of hooves invaded the village. Astride a horse much too large for his boyish frame was a tow-headed youth, who galloped the horse into the courtyard where he came sliding to stop as the animal buried his haunches in the dirt. The boy looked younger than Ahi Kekeleksu, no more than six or seven, but he handled the massive animal with surprising grace considering his diminutive stature. Dressed in linen trousers and a vested tunic, he was clearly English, and despite the lack of risk associated with his presence, she saw several of the men reach for their weapons.

Although Marcus growled a warning for her to stay put, she followed him anyway. What harm could the boy bring, no matter what people he hailed from?

“Are ye lost, lad?” Marcus asked. The boy shifted in the saddle, his eyes darting around the camp as his fingers gripped the reins. The whites of his knuckles gleamed like little white pearls across his fists.

“I’m looking for kin of the savage Winkeohkwet,” the boy said. His horse pranced nervously in a circle, but he kept his eyes sharp on Marcus.

“Who asks?” Marcus replied. Marcus took hold of the horse’s rein to steady the beast, who snorted at the action, but calmed.

“I’m Morgan White, ward of John Jackson. He sent me with a message, but I will only give it to yer leader. Would that be ye, sir?” the boy said as he thrust his chin out in an insolent manner.

“I am. Get down, and tell me yer message,” Marcus answered evenly.

Cormaic came forward unbidden, and pulled the lad down off the horse. Marcus handed the horse’s reins to another man, and she saw Benjamin bend down to inspect the youth.

“I know ye. Yer were friend to my father,” the boy said.

Benjamin put a hand on Morgan’s shoulder with a nod. It was then that Maggie recognized the boy. The memory of that terrible day rushed back to her. It was the day Winn was shot by Thomas Martin, setting into motion events that had changed all their lives.

Yes, Maggie remembered that day, and by the hollow look on Benjamin’s face, she was certain he recalled it as well.

“Aye,” Benjamin said quietly to the boy. “What news do ye bring, lad?”

Morgan looked up at the men towering over him. Maggie thought he must be afraid, with the semi-circle of brawn surrounding him, but the youth held his stance and glared defiantly at them.

“Ye need to come for yer savage if ye want him to live. There’s men planning to kill him when he leaves town with Joseph Benning. They say they will hang him in the square.”

Maggie felt a swaying beneath her feet. No. Not Winn. He had been faithful in his task, served the English and Indians fairly. How could they turn on him?

“Gather the men from the fields, send them to the Northern Hall. Boy, ye’ll stay here with us,” Marcus ordered. No one moved for a moment, until Marcus swung on them in a fury.

“Go!” He bellowed. The men scattered, and Maggie followed Marcus through the courtyard.

They gathered in the Northern Hall, yet Maggie did not understand why they did not immediately leave. Cormaic and Erich roused the others, demanding a quick response to aid Winn. Maggie grew frustrated as Marcus stayed silent, listening to the others argue on the best plan. Finally, Marcus threw back his shoulders and stood up, and the hall fell silent as attention shifted to the Chief.

“We will make two groups. I will take two men into town. The others will wait outside the palisades. If we show them he is not alone, they will not dare follow him,” Marcus announced.

Maggie hung back away from the others, poised at the door to the Northern Hall. She crossed her arms over her chest and closed her eyes as she listened to the men, their words blending into a senseless fog to her ears. There was only one thing she wished to hear, that they would immediately ride out to find Winn. Panic washed through her with each moment that they delayed.

“What if they already attacked? We must take them by surprise. It is the only way,” Cormaic argued. Erich placed his hand on his son’s shoulder, shaking his head.

“We have not enough men. And they have many more guns, we only have a few.”

“What of the Nansemond? Send a rider for help, the warriors will come fight with us,” another man suggested. The hall erupted with murmurs, discussions of what course to take trailing off between men.

Benjamin remained silent through the exchange as he sat at his father’s side. Tense through his shoulders, wearing the fur mantle of a Chief’s son, Benjamin glanced over at her. She met his eyes briefly before she left the hall.

Damn them for not leaving right away. Every sliver of her sense screamed it would be a mistake, but all she could think of was getting to Winn. After all, she had snuck into Martin’s Hundred to help Benjamin. It might be more sensible for a woman to try to go in. The English would not expect it, and she was fairly sure no one would recognize her, since she had not been near any English towns since the Massacre.

She needed a plan, but she would have time to make one on the way to town. Rebecca would keep Kwetii without alerting the men, giving her time to take one of the horses and slip away. She entered her empty Long House and took stock of her supplies: one rifle with half a bag of gunpowder, her bone-handled knife, and one of Rebecca’s English style dresses. It would have to do.

Her hands were slippery with sweat as she clutched the rifle and grabbed a traveling sack to pack with supplies.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

At the sound of Benjamin’s voice behind her, she bit down on her lower lip. She kept her back to him and continued shoving items in her bag.

“Leave me alone,” she replied. He placed a hand on her arm and she shook it off, turning on him in a fury. She slapped his second attempt to reach for her, until he stepped back with both arms held wide to give her space.

“All right! Stop yer fighting! I willna touch ye! But yer not going anywhere, I canna let ye leave!”

“By the time the others decide what to do, he could be dead. I have the best chance of sneaking in without notice, and you know it,” she countered. “I saved your hide once, didn’t I?”

“Yes, ye did. At too much risk to yer own blasted neck. Jamestown is different than Martin’s Hundred, Maggie, ye’ll be caught. Even if ye get in, ye canna get him out. Did ye think of that, or do ye wish to sit in the cell with him?”

“I won’t lose him again.” She swallowed back a sob as the sting of tears blurred her vision, and he reached for her again, but then dropped his hands when she backed up.

“What of yer daughter? Who will see to her if ye end up dead?” he said quietly. It was that notion that finally rattled her, and she felt the tears streak down her cheeks. He was right.

She sat down hard on the bedding platform and dropped the sack onto the floor. He kneeled down in front of her, his tousled locks falling over his face as he bowed his head. She could hear each breath he took, slow, controlled, as if he meant to speak but could not. When he finally looked up, his fingers were clenched into fists and his slate eyes were round and shallow.

“Do ye remember that day, when we were children? The last time I saw ye?” he said softly. She nodded. She could recall it well.

Hinges creaked, and she saw the wood plank door open. A pair of round blue eyes peered at her between the slats.

“Can I come in, Maggie?” he asked. She rolled her eyes. It was the boy, Marcus’s son. He wasn’t so bad.

“Oh, I guess. Hurry up and close the door.”

He slithered in and plopped down beside her.

“Ach, crap, I cut my finger on the stupid door. Gimmie your sock, will ya?”

“No, I’m not giving you anything! Go get a band aid, or keep bleeding, I don’t care!” she sniped. He shrugged.

When he saw her raven sitting solitary in the dirt, he fished in his pocket for a moment until he produced his own treasure.

The boy held it up, a wide toothless grin stretching across his face.

“See? Da gave you the raven, but I have the eagle. It’s better than the raven,” he bragged.

“No it’s not!” she hissed.

“Aye, it is! My Da said so!”

“You’re a liar, and I’m telling!” she shrieked. She jumped up and left him in the dirt.

It was the last time she saw him. Grandpa said not to speak of it, poor Marcus could not bear it. His little son, disappeared without a trace. The police said the mother must have taken him.

“You followed me everywhere, you were such a pest,” she laughed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. His eyes softened and he nodded with a wry smile.

“That I did.”

They both laughed, a nervous, strained interlude in an otherwise uncomfortable silence.

“I think I knew who ye were, when we met again. The day Winn brought ye to town, even with yer hair in braids and dressed like a squaw, I thought it was ye,” he confessed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she whispered.

“Those memories were buried down deep. I had to keep them silent, lest I fear I was mad. I was only a boy when I traveled here, not like ye, a woman grown. And then ye turned up, and I started to remember things. I knew where I came from, where ye came from.”

He thrust his fist into his pocket, pulling out his eagle figurine. She was shocked it was still in his possession, but it was the same as when she’d last seen it. He placed it gently in her hand and closed her fingers over it.

“You may be right. One man could get in, and warn him, much better than all of us,” he said.

“What are you saying?” she whispered.

“Ye’ll stay here. If the others know I’ve left, they will follow, and I will lose the chance to get into town. Let no one know I’ve gone.”

Her eyes followed his as he stood up, his face a steady mask betraying no sign of fear. He took the rifle from her hands and turned to leave.

“Why would you do this?” she asked. He paused at the door, without turning back.

“I have only one brother in this world. And he has only one wife.”

He closed the door gently as he left.

CHAPTER 28

Maggie

When Marcus learned of her role in helping Benjamin leave the village alone, he descended on her in a fury. He slammed the door of her Long House, his face a mask of heathen rage she had never witnessed before, even the first day he had helped save her and Winn from attack.

“Are ye out of yer mind?” he hollered. She stood shaking before him, more at the shock of his response than fear of him. They had suffered through many a heated argument over the years, and despite the violence clouding his blue eyes she knew he would never harm her.

“He wanted to go. He has a better chance being alone–” she tried to explain.

“He chances being killed!” Marcus shouted.

“I wanted to go. He wouldn’t let me!”

She heard the sharp intake of his breath, and watched him wave his hands at her in dismissal.

“What would ye do, save him yerself? Dinna I raise ye to have more sense than that? Jesus, Maggie, sometimes I think ye haven’t the good brains ye were born with!”

“You can go to hell, Marcus! I am sick and tired of being treated like I have no say in things! I’m sick of all you stinking men, running around like a bunch of idiots, making all the decisions! I’m sick of this stupid time, the stupid English–and–and you bloody men!” she shrieked.

She threw an empty bowl at him and watched him duck to avoid it. He glared at her, eyes widening in surprise before he closed the distance in two strides. He grabbed her arms before she could launch another missile, shaking her like a child.

“In this time, you have no say in it,” he shouted as she tried to twist away from him. He shook her roughly by the arms, his face contorted. “This is the time ye were meant to be born to. Ye live here now, and ye cannot change the ways of men. Do ye want to see them dead, for want of yer stubborn pride? For you to say ye saved him, like a woman of your time might do? Yer foolish plan will get him killed. Both of them this time. Both my sons.”

She felt her anger slipping away as he glared down at her, the sounds of their ragged breaths the only murmur between them. His fingers loosened on her arms, and with a sigh his frown deepened.

“I know ye think ye have no power here, Maggie. But ye have it all, ye just don’t know it yet,” he said softly.

“Do you mean as a Blooded One? I still don’t understand.”

“Aye, there’s that. But more than that. Ye have the love of two brave men, who each would move the earth itself to see ye happy. In this time, my wee hellion, that power is the most fearsome of all.”

She felt her throat constrict as tears smeared her cheeks. She had no answer for him. Her heart was filled with the love of one man, yet she knew in some part that his words held truth.

“I bid ye keep yer arse here while we fetch my sons. I’ve never had cause to take ye over my knee, but if I find ye up to any more trouble, I’ll tan ye good, grown woman or no. Agreed?”

She nodded. He kissed the top of her head before he left the Long House, slamming the door behind him.

The village was quiet without the men. The women gathered in the Northern Hall to prepare for the eventual return of the warriors, yet a veil of unease hung thick among them as they worked. She sat next to Gwen, who was focused in a dedicated manner pounding dried stockfish with a mallet. Maggie idly stirred the thick butter mixture they would soak the fish in later for the night meal as she stared off toward the doorway. She felt the eyes of the other women upon her as she worked, her skin prickling with the unsaid accusations. The men were gone to battle to retrieve her husband, and there was nothing she could do but sit by and wait to see if they all returned safely.

“Do you think they will return soon?” Maggie asked. Gwen continued to pound the fish, her mallet sliding off the slippery table edge as she worked.

“They’ll nay be long, worry not.” Gwen answered. “And ye would be dead right now if ye’d gone to town,” the older woman added.

Maggie dropped her ladle and looked up.

“I know,” Maggie replied quietly. She had already endured being chastised by Marcus. As much as Maggie knew she deserved it, she felt a heaviness in her chest at the thought of Gwen being angry with her as well.

“Ye dinna mean any harm, I can see that. But fer want of your foolish acts, our men might die,” Gwen said as she clenched her mallet. “We’ve survived here peaceably until today. No one bothers us, and we keep to ourselves. Some of these women willna forget if the men do not return.”

“Gwen, I’m so sorry,” Maggie whispered, her voice trembling. “They’ll all come home safely, they will–”

Gwen cut her off, pointing the mallet at Maggie.

“Ye need to take yer place here, girl, and remember who ye are. Ye cannot act alone as ye did today. Winn will be our Chief someday, and he needs a strong wife. Not a spoilt girl who thinks only of herself.”

Maggie could not answer. The breath caught in her lungs and tears coursed down her cheeks. Gwen was right.

“I–I’m sorry,” Maggie said. Gwen clucked her tongue and shook her head, laying down her mallet. Maggie put her face in her hands and brushed away the tears, trying to keep from falling apart as the painful truth roared in her ears.

“I know ye are. I know yer sorry,” Gwen replied quietly.

Maggie knew Gwen’s words were true, and the implication of her actions tore through her. If some of the men did not return, it would be her fault. She had made a foolish decision in a heated moment, and as a result, the lives of many men were put at risk. How would anyone ever forgive her if something terrible happened?

“I can’t sit here like this. I’m going to check on Kwetii,” she said. She avoided looking into Gwen’s face. Maggie knew she would break down in front of all the women if she stayed any longer.

“Go on then, have at it,” Gwen muttered. “Yer no help fer me here, with ye staring off and no work done.”

Maggie left the Northern Hall and made a brisk walk back to her Long House. There was no way she could concentrate on anything but worrying over Winn and the others. She knew better than most how ruthless the English could be, and how bloody a battle between them might turn out. As she entered the space she currently called home and reached for her sleeping child, it was all she could do to lay beside her without crying.

Maggie nestled down beside Kwetii, the child’s unique toddler scent comforting amidst the fear that threatened to suffocate her. Kwetii’s long lashes twitched as she slept, her bow-shaped lips making a sweet snoring sound as she breathed. Maggie suspected her daughter would be through with afternoon naps soon, but for now she watched the last remnants of her childhood slipping away too fast. Kwetii was born to the seventeenth century, and as such, her childhood would be a short one before she was thrust into the reality of life. Lying beside her and holding her close, Maggie wished she could shield her from what was to come. She prayed that Winn would be there to guide them.

It was impossible for her to rest, knowing the men she loved were in danger. After watching Kwetii sleep for a few minutes, Maggie decided to busy herself with tidying the Long House.

Since their arrival in the Norse village, they had acquired many more items than they were accustomed to owning. Winn found it strange to have personal possessions since the Indians regarded supplies as belonging to the community instead of individuals, yet even he had adapted to the change. She folded his braies and tunic and placed them in a basket hanging along the wall, and put his spare boots there as well. He must have worn his breechcloth and leggings into town, and she was not too surprised to see he had worn his native attire to conduct his business.

After she arranged his clothes in the basket, she turned to the corner he piled his belongings in. Sitting there, propped against the wall, was his sword. It gleamed in the flicker of the hearth fire, the amber light bouncing off the smooth metal. She ran one finger down the long, thick handle, which was carved deep with a tangle of runes. The symbols were meaningless to her, but a part of both her blood and Winn’s. A grandfather he had never known, Chief Drustan Nielsson, had held that sword in his hands as he fought those who meant him harm. So many tales, so many legends. Would she ever sit with her husband and children, and listen to the stories?

She looked up when Kwetii made a tiny mewling sound. The child did not wake, and for that she was glad. Maggie preferred to spend her desolation alone.

Winn’s second pair of leggings was still damp from washing, so she decided to lay it out in the sun to dry. Fall was upon them, and winter would arrive soon, but still they had the last remnants of summer sun in the afternoons and she preferred to take advantage of it. She draped the doeskin leggings over a bench and sat down, letting the warmth of the sunshine caress her face. She wished it was his touch on her skin, his fingers in her hair, instead of her own hands raking over her face as the tears fell.

What if the last words between them were those said in anger? If there were Gods in his time, did they listen to requests? If she asked for forgiveness, would it be granted? Perhaps if she promised to be a good wife, an obedient wife, a wife that Winn would not need to fight, it might be enough to please the Gods. Whatever Gods looked over the Powhatan, or the Norse, she would do anything to appease them. Even if it meant denying the time she was born to and all that she was.

She heard a stifled cry from the Long House and hurriedly wiped her hand across her face. It sounded as if Kwetii were in the throes of a nightmare, and with a wry smile she thought of how both Winn and she had suffered the same as children. As she turned to retrieve the child, her attention was distracted by the scent of smoke in the air. Across the courtyard, the storehouse was in flames, its roof alight like a torch against the blue sky. Maggie could see the other village women gathered outside the burning structure. She raced back into the Long House for Kwetii.

Crouched over her child was the misshapen back of a man. At the sound of her footsteps, he swung around, his fur cloak swirling around him as he snatched Kwetii into his arms. It was an older man she had never had words with, but she recognized him from meal times. Was his name Old Ivar? She could not recall.

When she took a tentative step forward, he stepped back and held up one hand straight out. Her stomach made a sickening leap when she saw he held a knife.

“Sir, I–I think my daughter must need me, if you please,” she said softly, her voice trembling. Kwetii hung from the crook of his elbow, her round eyes wide as she uttered a grunting cry. Her dangling legs kicked out. Maggie held out her arms. What on earth did he want with her child?

“Keep yer distance, ye bloody devil!” Ivar said. “Move away, or I’ll cut her, I swear it!”

She noticed his arms shook, the knife quivering in his unsteady fingers. She kept her eyes on his instead of Kwetii, afraid seeing her child’s terror would cause her own fear to take over.

“What do you want with her?” she asked.

“You’re the ones with the power to send our ship through time. I won’t stay in this blasted place anymore, I’m going to Vinland, no matter what yer Chief says!”

“I don’t understand. Truly. Please let her go, we can talk about this -”

“No! It’s too late fer that! I’m going back without them, let them rot here with the Indians and the English, I’ll nay be part of it any longer. Git out of my way, woman, now, I have a ship waiting fer me. All I need is the magic of a Blooded One, and I can return to my true time.”

“Then take me,” Maggie pleaded. Was this it? Was this her punishment for her crimes, for her rash actions? Would the Gods take her child as penance?

She slowly dropped to her knees before him, bowing her head, her body wreaked with tremors as he gripped her crying child. If it was Kwetii’s blood he wanted, she shared it as well. She did not understand what he meant, or how he meant to time travel, but the sight of a man holding a knife to her daughter lent to desperate measures no matter what the reason.

She felt his hand on her shoulder and she thought he might relent, but instead he thrust her aside and brushed past her with Kwetii in his arms. As she pushed to her knees, she saw a flash of yellow hair by the doorway, and then heard the hollow twang of a bowstring plucked.

Ivar fell to his knees with a muffled groan. A single arrow protruded from his chest, and Kwetii rolled to the ground beside him.

“A warrior woman once told me to strike swiftly, when I meant to kill a man,” Rebecca said. Her chest heaved against her snug shift, her bow poised in readiness for another shot as she glared at the fallen man. “I meant to kill that one.”

Kwetii burst into a panicked howl, and Maggie gathered her into her arms.

CHAPTER 29

Winn

Joseph Benning seemed like a competent man, and Winn thought he would serve Opechancanough well. Born to the Powhatans, Joseph had been sent to live with the English as a boy, and had even traveled across the ocean to England with the Tassantassas on several occasions. He was a slight fellow, slim in build with his Indian coloring typical, but his manner and dress was purely English. Winn suspected they were of similar age, yet Joseph had a solemn disposition that made him seem much older when he spoke. Like Winn, he was versed in several languages, trained from boyhood to be useful to his Weroance. Winn felt little regret at turning over his duties to Joseph. In fact, he could hardly finish the journey fast enough.

Although leaving Teyas had been difficult, he knew she was in good hands with Makedewa and Chetan at her side. They would see her settled with her new husband and escort her traveling party to her new home. He was not certain yet what village that would be, but his brothers would bring word of it when they met again at the Norse settlement. Finally, he felt their struggles were nearing end; perhaps they could settle in peace, as Maggie wished among the Norse. Knowing now what Marcus predicted of the future, Winn knew he could not settle with his family among the Powhatans. He would make his wife happy and keep her safe. Although it was in a different way than he envisioned for his family, it was the path they must take. It was all he could ask for.

Winn waited for Joseph outside the apothecary shop, where the other man had stopped for supplies. The sky overhead darkened with dense clouds, the signs of a storm moving in from the bay. He could see the pale underside of leaves as the wind whipped up the trees, and could smell the scent of salt in the air. Yes, a storm was brewing from the water, and it would likely be a harsh one, all the more reason to complete his task without haste.

Winn checked the strap on his horse and patted the animal’s neck as he looked across the wide thruway. It was a quiet evening in town. John Jackson stood outside the smith’s shop, absently rubbing down the barrel of a gun with a rag. Winn met his gaze and lifted his chin in acknowledgement. He had not spoken to John during his visit, and it was likely the last he would see the man for some time. Instead of a wave or nod, John looked away, beyond Winn’s shoulder, and Winn suddenly felt the presence of others walking up behind him.

“The Governor will see ye before ye leave, Speaker.”

When he served negotiation to the townsfolk, they called him Speaker, but Winn did not miss the inflection in the Englishman’s tone. He did not recognize the man who spoke, but when he turned his head slightly to the side he spotted Thomas Martin among the group. He counted six men total. With a quick glance at the shop for his companion, he determined two additional Englishmen detained Joseph inside as well, and he stiffened his shoulders as he realized he could not fight six men alone.

“I finished my business with the Governor. Tell him I will call on him another day. It grows late, and I am weary of talking.” Winn spoke his words, slow and even, as he turned back to his horse.

One of the men raised a musket level with Winn’s chest.

“Ye’ll come now, or have a hole in yer hide,” the one with the musket said.

He heard Thomas Martin make a wheezing nasal laugh. Winn turned to the men, making a purposeful effort to relax his tense back as he surveyed them. The street was eerily empty except for the group surrounding him, with not even an English soldier in sight. It seemed the Englishmen had planned well.

That one, he thought, glancing at Thomas Martin, that one he would kill last.

He saw John Jackson watching, unmoving as he stood by his shop. Winn squinted up at the sky and considered mounting up. He could get away, but he would not make it out of the palisades, which remained closed and guarded.

“Go then. Take me to the governor,” Winn said. He knew he was not being returned to the fanciful dwelling the Governor enjoyed within the settlement, but he complied nonetheless.

He left his horse tied to a post and followed the men.

Winn twisted his wrists against the rope binding, but the jailer had done his job well and they would not loosen. He sat upright with his arms bound behind him, and his ankles tied to the wooden legs of a chair. The English did not have a large space for detaining men, so they used a storehouse adjacent to the Governor’s dwelling. It was a simple one-room structure fit for no more than housing vermin. His shoulders ached from the strained position, and his head throbbed from where he had been struck with the butt of a rifle near his temple. Apparently, the English had more in mind for him than simply speaking with the Governor. He suspected Thomas Martin had much to do with his detainment.

“If ye tell us where the village lies, perhaps we will kill ye quickly,” Martin said. Somehow, the English had knowledge of the Norse colony up in the hills, and they wanted it taken for their King.

When Winn did not acknowledge the taunt, Thomas grabbed Winn’s hair and yanked his head up. The man’s squat, flushed face looked about to burst as he shoved it close to Winn, his breath nearly as rancid as the stench littering the storehouse.

“Nothing to say? Yer not so hard to kill now, are ye? Why, if a musket dinna finish ye, maybe this will,” Thomas said, letting Winn’s head drop. As his chin hit his chest and his gaze clouded over, he felt the burn of a rope twisting around his neck. He summoned all the strength he could muster to fight then, wrenching his body away from the men as they cut his ankle ties and pulled him to his feet. His muscles failed him as they looped the end of the rope over a low-hanging rafter and stretched his body upward until only the tips of his toes touched the ground.

Tighter it pulled, the pain of the rope burning like fire as he gasped for air, straining with all his might to keep his neck stiff against the hanging. His hands and legs fell numb and useless, like pins sticking him over every ounce of his skin, and when he thought he would take his last breath, they dropped him to the floor.

“We know they live near the Nansemond! Tell us where, save yer own life, ye filthy fool! We know it’s a bunch of Spaniards or worse up there, hiding in the hills! Why do ye protect them?” Thomas shouted as he kicked Winn in the ribs. The impact of the boot was a dull strike, yet an effective one, knocking the breath from Winn’s lungs. He knelt over on both hands, gasping shallow breaths against his screaming chest as he struggled for air.

He would not tell them. Let them hang him, let them take his life. He would not give up the last place his family could be safe.

“There is no village in the hills,” Winn said, spitting the blood from his mouth onto the dirt floor.

The Englishmen strung him up once more.

It was well into the night before Winn’s captors tired of the game. Finally they closed the door to the storehouse and left him in the shadows, the only light a glimpse of the moon from between the slats of the window shutters. He pressed his face to the earth as he lay on his belly, his arms still bound behind his back. The packed clay felt cool upon his skin, numbing the swelling of his jaw as he closed his eyes to the sensation. He considered the Bloodstone pendant still hanging from him neck, crusted into the wounds on his raw throat. If his hands were free, might he have used the magic to escape? It was better to have no choice, he imagined, rather than risk leaving his family. As he felt the wings of sleep take him into the darkness, the door burst open.

“Wake up!” A voice whispered. He felt hands on his wrists, and the smooth metal of a blade as it sliced through the rope. Unbound after hours of torture, his arms fell to his sides, limp and tingling. Winn kept his face flat to the floor, wondering what further punishment they sought to inflict at such a late hour.

“Can ye stand? Hurry, before they find us both!”

Winn opened one swollen eye, the one that was not plastered to the floor. He knew that voice, and he knew that face. It was Benjamin who kneeled over him, shaking Winn by one sore shoulder.

He had little enough strength to protest as Benjamin hauled him to his feet and looped Winn’s arm over his shoulders. His legs failed him at first but he gained his stance quickly. They had no time to lose, and for whatever reason his brother was there, it would likely be his only chance at survival. As Winn stumbled beside Benjamin through the door, his foot hit something soft and large lying on the ground.

“Lucky they left only one man to guard ye. It seems they dinna expect a rescue tonight,” Benjamin muttered. “That one was full in his cups when I came upon him.”

Winn was shocked that Benjamin had killed the Englishman, but would not dwell on it further. They had more pressing matters to deal with at that moment.

“The gates are guarded,” Winn said, his voice strained through his dry throat and cracked lips. He took in a breath and then bent abruptly over at the sharp pain in his side, coughing up a froth of bloody mucus. Benjamin held him by the shoulders to keep him upright as Winn heaved, and then pressed a flask to his lips. Winn took a gulp of the rum, spit it out, then took another.

“Ye ready?” Benjamin asked. Winn nodded as Benjamin pressed a knife into his hand. He rose up on shaking legs and followed of his own accord as they left the building.

The streets were dark and quiet. A sliver of a crescent moon still graced the purple sky, assisting their escape, but daylight would be upon them soon. Instead of making toward the gates as Winn expected, Benjamin led him behind the storehouse where there was a rope coiled in a heap on the ground.

“Can ye climb? The only way is to go over.”

Benjamin threw the looped end of the rope over the pointed tip of the palisade fence and gave it a yank. It held. Facing Winn, Benjamin could not see the Englishman sneak up behind him, but Winn did. Winn snatched the knife from his belt and threw it at the intruder, narrowly missing Benjamin’s head, but hitting the man squarely in the throat.

His brother slumped back against the fence, holding the side of his face where the knife had sailed past him.

“Could ye warn me, next time, ye think?” Benjamin snapped. Winn made a harsh snorting noise as he nodded.

“Yes. Next time,” he agreed. He bent to the fallen man and pulled the knife from his throat. Winn wiped the blade with his fingers. As Benjamin watched with his eyes narrowed and his lips pressed tightly closed, Winn placed the palm of his bloodied hand flat against his face. There the sticky, hot blood left a mark, one he would wear until he repaid the English in kind.

“Good Christ, man,” Benjamin muttered, shaking his head. They scaled the fence and made off into the woods behind Jamestown.

There was only one way out of town. Since Jamestown was almost completely surrounded by water, travelers to and from the town always took the same path. Benjamin, however, knew the area well, and he had used an unchartered trail through the dense forest that would be less likely to draw attention. It might delay an English search party, but Winn knew it would not deter them for long.

They walked for more than an hour before they found the place Benjamin tied the horses. The two men spoke little. He was not so dense as to be ungrateful for the help, yet Winn wondered why Benjamin had taken the risk of freeing him. Even more so, how did his brother know Winn had been detained?

Benjamin tossed him the flask as they sat down by the horses.

“How did you know?” Winn asked quietly. He took a sip, and passed it to his brother.

“Old Morgan’s son rode to the village for help. Sent by John Jackson.”

Winn considered the response, and it made sense. He recalled John Jackson watching from the gunsmith’s shop, and the lack of surprise the man showed when the English surrounded him. It seemed John had helped Winn in his own way, without the risk of showing involvement to the other Englishmen.

“We will be followed. Are you ready to fight?” Winn asked, tilting his head as he looked at the man who was his brother. Benjamin let out an insulted sigh.

“Ask yourself such. I’m the one that saved yer bloody arse, didn’t I? I can kill a man, the same as ye.”

“So you’ve learned to kill?” Winn answered.

“I’ve changed a bit,” Benjamin said. “As have ye, brother.”

They fell silent at the use of the title aloud. It hung there heavy in the air between them, waiting for acknowledgement, for either of them to broach the damage that had been done. Benjamin cleared his throat with a cough and took a swig of the rum.

“I’m not like ye, Winn. I thought ye were dead when I sent ye back on your horse that day. I knew not what else to do. As for her,” Benjamin said, his voice lowering an octave as he referred to Maggie. “I did the best I could. I had no people then, no man to stand by my side. I know I wronged ye, and I will pay for it all my days. There was no way for me to keep her safe unless we wed.”

“It meant more to you than that,” Winn answered. He felt the old anger rise, the sting of betrayal knowing his friend had stolen his wife. As Winn lay feverish and wounded near death, Benjamin had taken everything from him. Was his brother asking for forgiveness as he made his excuses?

“Aye. I wanted her. I willna deny it. But if I thought ye lived, I would have returned her to ye. Believe it, or not. I tell ye now as the truth of it.” Benjamin passed him the rum. “She suffered much with Martin. To make the marriage contract he asked for twice the bride price, and I gave him all I had. I couldna see her treated so poorly.”

Winn raised his head.

“How so?” Winn asked. Maggie had hated living with the English, but she had not spoken of any mistreatment.

Benjamin sat up as he squinted at Winn’s question.

“Martin saw her run to ye when ye were shot, and she tried to take the gun from him. He dinna care for the sting on his reputation, I suppose. The man hates the Indians. Maggie would not tell me what had been done to her, but I saw her wounds. I couldn’t leave her there.”

“What wounds?” Winn asked. His chest tightened as he realized what Benjamin spoke of, and his heart sank with the knowledge that Maggie had kept it from him.

“He beat her. I feared the babe would not survive. There was scarce an ounce of her skin without mark.”

Winn stood abruptly to his feet. He strode a few paces away, his hands tight at his sides as he let out a low groan.

Why would she hide such a thing from him?

He knew the answer immediately, of course. Maggie knew Winn would have killed Martin, and it was the fighting and death that his wife feared the most. His chest ached as he drew in his breath, and he did not know if it was due to the trauma to his ribs or the fist that clenched his heart. She was a stubborn one, he knew that well, but keeping such a thing from him? He could only imagine how she must have felt. Trapped alone in his time, carrying his child, with no way to care for herself. It was no wonder she fought so hard to stay with the Norse. Perhaps it was the only way he could make her feel truly safe.

Benjamin stood.

“Winn-”

His words were cut off by the roar of a rifle. As Winn turned, he saw Benjamin thrown to the ground with a wound to his shoulder. Winn’s eyes darted to the periphery of the clearing to find the source of the shot, but in the cover of darkness even his sharp eyes were of little use. He grabbed hold of Benjamin’s good arm and dragged his brother into the trees for cover.

“Quiet!” Winn hissed when Benjamin let out a groan.

“Help me to the horse, we need to leave!”

Winn shook his head at Benjamin’s plea.

“I don’t know where they are. Stay down.”

Winn took a few precious moments to tear apart Benjamin’s shirt and put pressure on the wound. Although it surged with blood, it was not deep, the flesh only torn by the graze of the shot. It would not kill him, but Winn was sure it was painful. Benjamin pushed Winn’s hand away and applied pressure to his own wound as he tried to sit up.

“Come out, Speaker! You’ll fare no better for hiding!” an Englishman called out from somewhere beyond the tree line.

Winn looked down at Benjamin. The wounded man might be able to make it to the horses, if the English had not scared them off. If Winn distracted their attention long enough, perhaps his brother would succeed in getting away. There was no time to think of a plan, nor regret that they had stopped for rest instead of continuing on. Although Winn did not yet know whether to trust Benjamin or not, the man had saved his life, and for that he could not let him be taken by the English.

The English came out of the trees, and Winn could see that they had gathered more men before they pursued the escaped prisoner. Winn crouched at the waist and shifted his stance so that he stood between Benjamin and the approaching English. He adjusted his grip on his knife as he eyed them. More than a dozen settlers all held muskets, a show of firepower against the single knife Winn held and the flintlock rifle tied to Benjamin’s horse. Winn weighed the probability of winning the fight.

No, he might not win it, but he would take many of them with him when he fell.

Winn saw one man raise his musket, wavering as he pointed it into the trees near where Benjamin lay. Instead of waiting for the sound of the shot, he dug his heels into the soft earth and took off at a run toward the man. As Winn uttered a guttural scream, the startled man fumbled the weapon and nearly dropped it, leaving Winn the opening to launch himself at the Englishman. Chaos exploded around them as he tackled the man to the ground, and he heard the scuffle of bodies and shouts behind him, yet all he could focus on was the one lowly man he held in his grasp at that moment. His gaze became a tunnel, seeing through his opponent, yet narrowed on the prize, and as Winn thrust his knife into the side of the man’s shuddering chest, he could see only blood cloud his vision.

Winn took the gun from the dead man and used it to smash into the head of the next Englishman who dared challenge him. Winn dipped his shoulder and rammed it into another, slicing his knife upward across the next throat with a shrill scream. The remaining English seemed to recover from their panic at his distracting warrior bellow, and from the corner of his eye he saw Benjamin grappling with two men as Winn crouched to face yet another attacker.

Two attacked the wounded Benjamin. If he could kill three more that stood circling him, he might help his brother.

His fist slipped when he clutched his knife, holding it out in front of him, and he was perplexed to see a smear of blood trickling down his arm when he glanced at his palm. He had not felt it when the Englishman sliced his skin, and he did not feel it now, it was only a semblance of distraction at losing his grip. He tossed the knife to his dry hand and wiped the blood off on his bared chest. His blood or that of another, he would wear it until he ended them.

Thomas Martin lifted his flintlock musket, standing no more than a few paces away. Winn lurched for the man, grabbing the barrel of the weapon before the man fired it. The shot rang out close to his ear, but Winn found Martin’s neck with one hand and squeezed it as he felt his strength begin to fade. His damaged ribs screamed with each breath as Winn thrust his knife up into the man’s chest.

Martin glared back at him, his black eyes forming a look of defiant surprise as Winn held him.

“I should have made sure ye were dead,” the man groaned.

“Yes,” Winn muttered. “You should have.”

Winn dropped him to the ground, and the remaining Englishmen closed in. He refused to retreat as he felt Benjamin scramble up behind him.

“We should run,” Benjamin said.

“No,” Winn replied evenly, his eyes on the advancing men.

The decision was suddenly taken from them. He heard the bellows before they came into view, the sound of the pounding hooves and fierce war cries piercing the air and causing even the English to shudder. Norse and Indians rushed upon them amid a clash of metal and bodies, and suddenly the upper hand in the fight changed. Winn heard the shout of his father and the screams of his brothers as they ran into battle.

The English were outnumbered, and although most continued to fight after the initial burst of surprise, a few tried to run away and were quickly cut down. Makedewa and Chetan fought alongside each other, cutting through men who challenged them. Crouched down beside Benjamin, Winn watched as Marcus brought his bryntroll down with a sickening thud across the chest of a fleeing Englishman he knocked to the ground, and then calmly wrenched it from the fallen body as he surveyed the scene.

“Is that all of them?” Marcus called out. Cormaic approached, his face flushed like a ripe cherry and his reddish blond hair hanging streaked with blood. His breath came rapid, but Cormaic nodded, a smug grin on his face as he looked to his Chief.

“And that one?” Erich asked, nodding toward the man fallen next to Benjamin. Benjamin tried to rise, but faltered with the use of only one arm.

“Aye, he’s dead,” Benjamin said.

Marcus gave a few curt orders, and the men scattered around the clearing gathering up weapons from the dead. Winn moved to join them, but Marcus put a hand on his arm.

“Are ye all right?” Marcus asked, the words coming out part choked, half-whispered. His father stood before him, his face creased, his blue eyes hooded with rancor. Yet Winn could see the gleam of fear there as well, and as Marcus darted a glance at Benjamin, Winn knew what that fear felt like.

It was the fear Winn felt when smoke rose above the trees the day deserters attacked his family. It was the fear Winn felt when his scheming uncle stole his wife and child. It was the fear Winn knew every time he thought he alone might not be enough to keep his loved ones safe.

It was the fear of a man for the life of those he loved.

“Good timing, father,” Winn replied. Marcus stilled, his hand clenched on Winn’s arm, and his eyes widened before they softened. His mouth thinned into a grin, and he nodded.

“Aye. I’ll help Benjamin to the horses, you go help the men.”

“I will help my brother,” Winn replied. He turned back to Benjamin and extended his hand, helping him to his feet. Benjamin’s face was careful, his expression relieved yet sheltered. Things were not mended between them, but they had a start of it, at least.

Winn grimaced when Cormaic thumped him heavily on the back, and Erich made an offhand comment about the state of the Englishman’s ballocks. They all joined in the laughter, a welcome reprieve as they gathered in the clearing among the dead. Englishmen littered the ground in various states of demise. Their defeat was due to their own insatiable need of conquering the land, and Winn knew it would not be the last time they fought the settlers. Although Winn would kill any man that threatened him and he had taken the lives of many an Englishman, he did not view it in delight, rather as necessity. It was simply survival, and suddenly he was glad to have the men at his side that would ensure it.

He helped Benjamin mount, and suddenly a shot rang out through the laughter. The horse reared, but Benjamin held on, and Winn grabbed the reins to steady the animal as he turned to look toward the explosion.

The Englishman whom Benjamin had thought dead sat up, perched on one shaking elbow with a smoking musket jammed against his shoulder. Winn reacted with a swift motion, sending his knife through the air to land in the man’s chest, ending his life for sure with the blow. As Winn stalked back toward the body to retrieve his knife, the sight of a Norseman lying too still on the ground stopped him quick in his paces.

Blood pulsed from a spreading wound to his belly. Winn sank down to his knees beside his father in the dirt.

CHAPTER 30

Maggie

Smoke filled the yard from the remnants of the storehouse fire, the breeze a hazy curtain as the men filtered into the yard. Old Ivar had set the storehouse aflame to distract everyone from his crime, and it still smoldered even though the fire had been doused hours before.

Winn stood apart from the others. Covered in grime, his face stained with the crimson mask of a dried handprint, Maggie trembled to see him meet her eyes across the courtyard. She had seen him in such a state only once before, and that had been when he painted his body in war grease and arrived to slaughter the English on the day of the massacre.

Winn walked toward their Long House, but when he saw her, he stopped. Although he had returned safely to her, she could see something was terribly wrong. His grey eyes seemed to stare through her as she approached him, and she saw his fists clenched at his sides in unspoken rage. The despair in his face should have made her afraid to approach him, but she had tamed her warrior husband before and would do it again if needed. If she had power over nothing else in their life together, she had that. She refused to fear the sight of his berserker eyes and rigid muscles.

“Winn,” she said softly as she joined him. As he stared down at her with haunted eyes, she could see the handprint on his face was blood, and if it belonged to him or another lost soul, she did not know. She braced her own trembling as she reached for him, running her palm over his chest, then up to his shoulder. He stood straight, unyielding, until finally he let loose and pulled her into his arms. She felt her breath leave her chest as he squeezed her, and she let out a little cry when she felt him shudder.

“Ntehem,” he said. He took her face in his hands and kissed her, then buried his lips in her hair as he clutched her to his chest. The torn skin on his neck bled as she felt the sticky blood of her husband on her hands, but it did not sway her as she cried and he whispered sweet words in her ear. “I am so sorry,” he murmured.

“For what?” she asked. “Here, come inside, let me help you, you’re bleeding–”

“No, not now,” he said. She pulled back so that she might see his face, yet when she saw the echo of despair in his eyes she was not reassured.

“Come to the Northern Hall. The others are there,” he said.

It was then that she saw it. The litter was carried by four warriors, one at each corner. On it was the still body of Winn’s father.

Time halted to a blur as they followed the litter inside. Among the sounds of weeping, Maggie and Winn kneeled down by his side. Marcus was not yet gone, but it would not be long. She watched as Gwen peeled back the torn tunic to reveal the injury. Across his navel was a deep, jagged wound, pulsing with each staggered breath he took despite the pressure one of the men held on it with a makeshift bandage. Maggie felt the hot tears on her cheek as Gwen pulled away with a grim shake of her head.

“I will bring him a drink to ease his journey,” Gwen said as she left and pushed through the gathered crowd. Maggie heard Gwen shout a barrage of orders, and soon the others moved away. Erich and Cormaic stood nearby. Winn put his hands on her waist as she sunk to the ground beside Marcus, steadying her as if she would fall.

His skin had drained to a grey pallor, the hollows of his eyes standing out like shadows on his face. She could see he still breathed by the occasional rise and fall of his chest, but with each movement his face winced and he uttered a groan. When Gwen returned with a cupful of liquid, Winn helped him sit up to take a sip. As Gwen pressed the cup to his lips, Marcus opened his eyes.

“Is this the drink of the Gods?” he asked. Gwen nodded, tears in her eyes.

“Yes, my lord,” she said.

“Good then. Help me rise, so I may take it.”

Gwen helped him drink, and then she placed a series of rune stones on his chest when she laid him back down. They were round and flat, lying stark against his pale skin as he struggled through each breath.

Maggie bit back a sob as she watched him drink the thick honeyed liquid. As her eyes darted to those watching, she realized with a sickness in her belly that they all knew what it was.

They were sending their Chief on his way. They eased his journey with a sweet nectar drink, a gift to lighten the load he must bear.

“No,” she whispered, starting to rise. Winn held her tight, refusing to let her move from his father’s side. Marcus finished the last swallow, some of it leaving his mouth in a drip to stain his cheek. Maggie reached for his face to wipe him with the edge of her gunna apron and he smiled, closing his hand over hers. Her fingertips tingled where the nectar smeared her skin.

“No crying, lamb. Ye know I canna stand it, not from ye,” he said. “Here, lay yer head down. It’s been awhile since ye were a bairn, but I see ye as that, always.”

She did as he requested, placing her head gently on his chest as he gripped her hand. The sound of his heart was far away, a slow thud that would not be chased, its message fading with each breath he took. She felt his hand on her hair, and the soft touch of his chin on her forehead. Whether it was the strength of the drink or the despair in her soul she did not know, but at his touch, numbness seared her skin. She hoped that same numbness gave him comfort as the last of his lifeblood drained away.

“Yer grandda would be happy to see ye with yer kin again. It’s where ye belong, make no mistake,” Marcus murmured. He tried to push himself up again, but fell back down at the effort with a strained moan, his hand moving to his wound. His fingers were stained with blood. “Go now, Maggie. I must speak to my sons for a bit. I’ll see ye later.”

Her teeth closed tight over her lower lip at the attempted jest. They both knew quite well there would be no later, yet they were the parting words they had shared her entire life.

When she left for school each day. When she took her first drive in their farm truck as a reckless sixteen-year-old. When she left on her first date as a teenager in the car of a boy he did not like. It was a promise between them, one she always knew he would keep.

“I’ll see you later,” Marcus promised.

“All right, then,” she whispered. She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek, and her lips immediately felt numb. “I’ll see you later.”

She left him there, tears hot on her cheeks, even as she did her best to hide them. Winn and Benjamin knelt down at his side, and as she walked away she could hear the murmur of his last words, fading like the whisper of sunshine on an autumn evening as he spoke softly to his sons.

CHAPTER 31

Winn

Winn stood at the doorway of Gwen’s house, watching in silence as Maggie took hold of Finola’s hand. His grandmother sat motionless in her chair by the hearth, her grey eyes wide open, yet staring off at the wall as if something entranced her. She had spoke little since her arrival in the village, and he feared the outcome should she chose to finally find her voice again. The Pale Witch would not find any consolation in the truth of her predictions this time. He could see now why such things drove her to madness.

“Finola, it’s me. Maggie,” his wife murmured. Maggie brushed a stray lock of yellowed hair from the older woman’s forehead and gently shook her shoulder with her other hand. With her chest rising in a deep breath, Finola closed her eyes, and then turned toward Maggie.

“I know why ye come here. I see my son in Valhalla, waiting to feast with the Kings,” Finola whispered, her voice surprisingly steady. It was if she possessed her old strength on simple impulse, finding some purpose in the grief of the Chief’s passing.

Maggie’s eyes opened wider, and she moved back away from Finola to stare at the older woman. Finola’s face was a flat slab, an empty canvas as to what her true feelings might be. Winn recognized the sudden light in her eyes, the way the blue eyes glowed like tepid orbs beneath her fair brows. The spirit of the Creator had returned to her, and he was glad for it.

“Take me to him, my Chief,” she whispered. The voice was not her own. It was the voice of a priestess, the commune of the magical host within her, a welcome intruder that would use her earthly body for the duty ahead.

They escorted her to the Northern Hall. The space was filled with the villagers, each tending a task to send the Chief on his way. Winn did not fully understand the ways of the Norse, yet from what Erich explained it was the only way to send Marcus to the afterlife. Women were busy at tables, preparing food for the journey. Fresh honeyed mead and the scent of charred lamb filled the air, mixed amongst the smoke of the funeral pyre sneaking in from the courtyard. Someone had sparked it when Marcus took his last breath, and from what information he gleaned from the Norse, the fire was meant to keep burning until the Chief was sent on his way.

The hall fell silent when they entered. In the few days since his father had passed, Winn felt a growing discomfort with the sudden title thrust upon him, and the further reverence others showed him. They called him Chief, and Jarl, and waited for his command on all things. What once had been a source of amusement for his brothers to tease him with was now a stark reality. His father had fallen, and now Winn was expected to take his place. There was no fight over such a position; it was his by right of blood, the blood of the first born son.

The heads of men bowed when he entered the hall, and women bent low at the waist as he passed. He could feel Maggie tense beside him, also unsure of her new role, her fingers entwined tightly in his as she walked at his side.

Gwen and Erich approached and Winn grimaced when they behaved in a similar fashion. He placed his hand on Erich’s shoulder.

“Will it be today?” Winn said.

“Yes, my lord. The fire burns, and his vessel is ready to receive him,” Erich replied.

“The other men are in agreement?” Winn asked. Erich’s eyes squinted down, darting toward Gwen for a moment. Gwen took Finola’s hand and led her toward the other women, and Maggie followed them after giving Winn’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“The decision is yours,” Erich answered. Winn tightened his grip on the older warrior’s shoulder, looking him in the eye.

“I wish to know if the men agree. They have labored long to make the ship. I would not allow it if they object,” Winn insisted. He did not fully understand the Norse ways, and it seemed wasteful to him to burn a ship for a dead man. Yet, if it was what the people wished for the fallen chief, Winn would agree to honor the tradition.

Erich sighed.

“Winn, I know ye have doubt in leading these men. But this is not the time to dwell on yer fear. Send yer father to Valhalla on the ship, give him the respect he deserves. We saw his own father buried the same, and his father before him. Our Chiefs deserve such a reward when they have given their very lives in battle. It is an honorable way to die.”

“I was not born to this life, as you were. If I lead them, it will be in my way,” Winn replied. “And my way is to know what the people I serve wish of their Chief.”

“Then give me yer trust, as yer faithful man. I tell ye, yer people wish it so. It will give us all great pleasure to see him sent off as such.”

“And my brother? What does he say of this?”

“That, I cannot tell ye. He made his offering this morn, and I have not seen him since. I would not worry on it. He is like ye, born of another place, he does not understand our ways.”

Winn was aware Benjamin had been absent from the funeral preparations. In fact, Winn had not spoken with him since the day they knelt down at his father’s deathbed and heard the Chief’s last words.

“Benjamin…my son,” Marcus said. They could see the strength leave his limbs as he lay prostate on the platform, the rune stones lying over his scarred skin like brands on his flesh. The scent of death surrounded him, a dank fog amidst the echo of his fading spirit. His color fell gray, his lips tinged blue as he spoke, and Winn was glad Maggie was not there to see him falter. Benjamin slipped his hand around that of his father, and bowed his head down, his dark curls falling over his anguished eyes.

“I’m so sorry, father,” Benjamin whispered, low and strained.

“No. Say nothing of the sort. I am sorry fer leaving ye lads like this. There is much I meant to tell ye,” Marcus said. He grimaced then, uttering a stifled groan with a deep sigh, after which he was silent for a long moment. He opened his eyes again once more, however, and this time he stared at Winn.

“I failed ye both, as I was never a father to either of ye…for that I have suffered. But by right of our blood, I served our cause, as my father did, and his father before him. You must both bid me promise that ye will do the same.”

“I do not understand,” Benjamin said. Winn felt no power to answer, knowing exactly what his father meant. Marcus had tried to tell him of the old ways, many times, and each time Winn had let his anger rule him and refused to listen. How curious it was that he now understood. He knew the power of the magic in Maggie’s blood, the magic in his daughter’s blood. Even before now, he would have protected them with his own life, yet now he understood there was a much greater duty upon him than that of a husband to his family.

“The blooded MacMhaolian, our most powerful one,” Winn answered, his eyes meeting those of his father. Marcus made a small nod, staring back at him with those ice-laden blue eyes so like his own.

“It was the blood of a Chief Protector that brought us here. Only great magic can send a Longship through time. The power of time travel must remain our secret, and ye are sworn to protect it. Put aside yer quarrels, for the good of your people. I left my family, and all those I loved, to see it safe. Do not make it for nothing. Keep them close, see that they live on. I was born to protect them, and so are ye. I ask ye both, as my sons, to make it so.”

“Father–” Benjamin said. Marcus shook his head.

“No. Give me yer oath, as protectors of our blood. Give me yer oath!”

The choked demand strained Marcus, and he fell back onto the furs. Winn took his father’s hand and bowed his head to him.

“I give it to you, father,” Winn said. Marcus clenched his hand, a slight gesture, yet enough for Winn to know his pledge was accepted.

“As do I,” Benjamin agreed.

“It may take ye from this time. It may take you from yer own people. But it is yer duty now, and I expect ye to honor it. I tell you now, be ready. Others will search for her, as they have always searched for her kind. No other King must ever take her from us, lest all will be lost. The secret of Time Travel is ours to bear, ours to guard. Give me my knife.”

Winn handed Marcus his dagger. He had tried to learn the meaning of the runes and did not expect to recognize the markings, but when he looked down at the weapon he felt his chest tighten. His father’s dagger bore a familiar twisted knot on its hilt, a deep carving on a weapon meant for the Chieftain Protector of the Blooded Ones.

Winn did not flinch at the cut, nor when Marcus sliced Benjamin as well. Marcus clasped their bleeding arms together, brother to brother, their blood bound now more beyond what time or family could envision. Marcus seemed satisfied at that, and he lay back onto the furs with a long sigh.

Death took him. In the shadows of the Northern Hall, Winn saw them descend. The Norse called them Valkryies; he thought them only messengers of the Great Creator. Across the divide of time and the separation of their lives, they came together in that moment, two sons and a father, as they watched his lifeblood slip away.

“See to the final arrangements. We will send my father to Valhalla tonight. I will speak to Benjamin,” Winn said. Erich nodded and left to join the men. Winn went in search of his brother.

Winn searched the village for Benjamin without a hint of his whereabouts, finally checking on his wife again in the hall before he looked in one more spot. In his travels he had seen nearly every person in the village, and none knew of where Benjamin might be. There was only one place Winn had not thought to look, and it was that place that he finally found his brother.

The door to the Long House he shared with Maggie was ajar, and Winn could hear the murmur of Kwetii’s laughter inside. She was a cheerful child who reveled in any attention shown to her like a hungry scamp, taking it all in with her greedy little smile. Although she likened to most adults with ease, it made his chest heavy to see her so enthralled with his brother. She sat perched in Benjamin’s arms as they stood by the hearth, speaking softly and pointing to the figurines on the mantle. Benjamin handed her one tiny sparrow, which made her coo with delight, and then he carefully returned it to its spot so they could consider the next one.

There was little resemblance between Benjamin and Winn, other than the peculiar blue berserker eyes and their physical size. With Kwetii, however, Winn could see the Nielsson blood. Her small, round tipped nose, her thick brown brows, and the shape of her high, flushed cheeks. Did her heart-shaped face come from them as well, or was that a feature of her special blood? Yet it seemed to no longer matter as he stood watching his brother hold his daughter, and Winn knew with a sickness in his gut it would be the last he saw of Benjamin.

Winn cleared his throat, more in defeat than meaning to disturb them, but Kwetii quickly perked up, distracted from her quiet conversation with Benjamin.

“Da!” Kwetii cried. She held her arms out to Winn.

“Go on, then, ye fickle one,” Benjamin chided her, handing her over. She smothered Winn with a wet kiss, and he smiled.

“I thought Rebecca watched her,” Winn commented.

“Makedewa walks with her to give her his farewell.”

Winn took in that confession, the ache in his chest growing stronger. He had suspected it of Benjamin, but not Makedewa, yet he was hardly surprised by the revelation. Both men were damaged. Perhaps they would find peace as they journeyed together.

“Must I order you to stay?” Winn asked. He saw a wry smile twist his brother’s mouth.

“Aye, order me, then, my Chief. And I will disobey you. Then what? Will you take your sword to my neck?” Benjamin shook his head. “Nay, give me no order, brother. It is better this way, surely you know it.”

“If it is for the sake of her,” Winn said, unwilling to speak Maggie’s name, “Then put it from your mind. She wishes you to stay, as I do.”

Benjamin shook his head.

“What part would I play in this life here? It is our father’s blood that stains my hands, just as surely as if I dealt the blow. It was my mistake that ended him. I cannot see the faces of these men every day, knowing what I have done. I cannot see yer face, each day….knowing what I have done.”

Winn knew his meaning ran deep. Benjamin had not forgiven himself, and for want of the truth Winn was not sure he had forgiven him, either. He did not blame his brother in the least for the death of their father; that was a separate thing, more of an excuse to give him more strength of resolve. No, the thing that drove his brother away was the love Benjamin still held for Winn’s wife, and they both knew it.

“Then find peace once more. Go. Be safe, my brother.”

Benjamin clasped his arm, and he returned the gesture in kind. As he held his brother’s embrace, Winn looked into the eyes so similar to his own. It was then that he could see it. A glimmer, a hint, a sliver of hope that someday he would return. After all, they had made a blood vow to protect the Blooded Ones. It was a vow Winn was certain Benjamin would honor when he was needed.

CHAPTER 32

Makedewa

Makedewa did not touch Rebecca as they walked quietly through the village. People bustled in every direction, making the last of preparations for the burial of their fallen Chief. He was glad for the distraction, since he did not know how to tell her what he planned to do.

“You were brave to save Kwetii,” he finally said. Perhaps if he started off with a compliment, it would ease the way for the rest of what they must discuss. She tilted her head a bit to the side and looked gainfully at him with her soft round eyes, her hair falling back away from her face.

“Thank ye. My teacher was quite skilled,” she said. Her shirts rustled with each pace, her hands swaying at her sides instead of tucked up in fists. He took a chance by catching her fingers, entwining them in his own. He was glad for the risk when her lips curled into a shy smile.

They walked together to the edge of the village, where the clearing opened up to the meadow. He stopped her when she started to take the path toward the ridge, afraid of betraying too much of himself should they be alone so far from the others. The sounds of the villagers behind them reminded him of his intent.

“I wish to say goodbye,” he said softly, pulling her to a stop. She turned quickly back to him.

“Another task, for yer uncle? I thought ye men were through with doing his deeds,” she said, uttering a sharp sigh as if his statement made no sense.

“It is no task for my uncle. I leave with Benjamin today.”

His chest tightened as her face crumbled and her mouth formed a half-opened denial. Her cheeks flushed crimson as she struggled with her response.

“But why? Is it because…” she said, her words trailing off unsaid. Her fingers clenched tight around his.

“No, little bird, I do not run from you,” he replied. He cupped her face gently with his hand, running his thumb over her lips. He smiled when she turned her face toward his touch and closed her eyes.

“Then why?”

“Because I am not ready to be a husband to you. A man should have a great journey before he takes a wife,” he whispered. A tear spilled down her face, and he brushed it away. They both knew it was a lie. “So you must wait to be my wife. When I return, I will be much stronger. I will be ready to be a good husband.”

He closed his mouth gently over hers as her tears fell, holding her face his hands, his body trembling at the touch of her skin against his.

“Nouwami, chulentet,” he whispered. I love you, little bird, he thought as the realization of leaving her felt like a stake piercing his chest. He had never considered his heart before, but as he looked down on her, he suddenly felt it breaking. Yet he knew it was what they needed, what they both needed. Soon, when she was ready to spread her wings, he would return, and she would welcome him.

He kissed her urgently once more and then pulled away. It took strength he did not know he still possessed to leave her, but thankfully, it was enough. As he walked away he heard her voice, only a whisper, yet still resilient, and he smiled through his pain.

“I love ye too,” she said.

It was enough for now.

CHAPTER 33

Maggie

Maggie placed a bundle of fine linen into a deep thatched basket for Gwen to add to the burial pyre. Although she was painfully aware of her new role in the community, she leaned on Gwen’s strength to finish the task ahead. Hearing the bustle of the villagers prepare the feast, and the roar of the fire in the yard as Finola muttered a pagan chant was near too much to bear. It was expected of Maggie to attend and oversee the details, yet she deferred to the others not out of obstinacy, but of grief. She simply could not look at the lifeless body of her beloved friend without falling apart.

Maggie clutched her thick fur mantle up around her neck with two fists, rubbing her chin against the lush white pelt. It was new to her, an exorbitant gift from her husband to wear to the ceremony. Looking around at the others, her vision began to blur and her heart raced, so she decided she had enough. They could do without her for a short time.

She spotted Winn walking toward her across the yard as she left the Northern Hall. His pace was brisk, his eyes troubled, and she hoped there was no more trouble for him to bear. Her husband had already borne too much.

“What is it?” she asked as he reached her. He did not touch her, keeping his hands loose at his sides. His pulse danced rapid on his neck, his veins standing out like cords across his skin. She put a soft hand on his cheek, relieved when he did not flinch away, but instead covered her hand with his own.

“Benjamin is leaving,” he said.

“Oh,” she murmured. She was not shocked by the news, but stunned that it was Winn who spoke the words to her.

“He watches Kwetii now, while Rebecca speaks with Makedewa. It seems Makedewa will join Benjamin on his journey.”

She searched his gaze for a hint, anything to guide her in what Winn expected of her. She sighed with the realization that she had never been any good at doing what he ordered, and now was not the time to fret over it. Her husband was hurting, despite whatever had transpired between him and his brother, and she could plainly see he was troubled over the impending departure.

“You should go see to Kwetii,” Winn said quietly, his voice low and hoarse. He drew her close then, pressing his lips gently to her hair, his voice meant only for her ears. “Go. Go see to our daughter now. I will wait for you in the Northern Hall.”

She closed her eyes to his words. No, this was not her husband sending her to tend their child. It was her husband sending her to say goodbye to his brother, in the only way he knew how, the only way he could accept.

“Go,” he whispered. He swept the hair back off her face and kissed her roughly, his lips harsh with possession, although they both knew she belonged only to him. She tried to cling to him, but he gently peeled her hands from his face and placed them at her sides. He turned abruptly and walked away.

She folded her arms across her chest, her breath coming fast as her heart pounded in her ears. How could their lives have taken this turn? To finally find safe haven, a family, for Winn to have a father? Now they stood on the edge of losing it all. His father had fallen, and now he would lose two brothers as well. For all they had suffered, she could not watch it end this way. Instead of a goodbye, there would be a different conversation.

Kwetii was asleep when she arrived, snoring peacefully on the bedding platform. Benjamin sat beside her, swaying gently in the new rocking chair Erich had made for her. His eyes were closed, but he opened them and stood up when she approached.

“She’s sleeping sound, I bid ye she’ll stay like that for some time. Give ye a spot to yerself,” he said, as if he did not guess why she was there. She knew him better than that, and she resented his games.

“How can you leave like this? Now, of all times?” she asked.

Benjamin placed his hands on his hips, in that way he did sometimes when he had no answer, giving himself time to say something meaningful in return. She could recall him making the gesture as a child, and later as a man. He looked like Marcus then, his blazing eyes shadowed by a furrowed brow. Suddenly he flinched and turned his back to her, as if to shield himself from her accusations.

“How can ye ask me to stay? You, of all of them. Ye who know me best,” he replied.

“Marcus wanted you here, with your family. He risked his life using that damn Bloodstone, just to come here to find you!”

“Aye, he traveled far to find me. But it was ye he meant to see safe, on his sworn vow. I know now what it means, to be the son of such a man. In yer blood lies the power of the Blooded Ones, and mine is bound to protect ye.”

“You can’t protect me if you leave,” she said.

His shoulders stiffened.

“I think my brother will serve ye well in my absence.”

She put a hand on his arm.

“But you can’t leave,” she whispered. “What can I say to make you stay?”

He swung around, his hands shaking in closed fists at his sides. He came so close they nearly touched, staring down at her with a mixture of despair and sadness she had never seen in him before.

“Your words would not make me stay. Nay, woman, get ye gone. I have no more for ye, except goodbye.”

She wanted to comfort him, to give him something. For all he had given her of his heart, she could not keep it, yet looking into his red-rimmed eyes she was flooded with grief. Grief for what he had suffered, for what pain she had caused him. Anguish at the truth that lay between them, as thick as the smoke from the burial pyre burning in the courtyard. He had given, and she had taken. She knew he could not stay.

“Where will you go?” she asked quietly. He lifted his head, his tousled hair falling back from his face. Stark blue eyes faded to dull glimmers as he looked at her.

“I don’t know. I shall know when I get there, I suppose.”

Her breath slowed as met her gaze.

“Your family is here,” she insisted.

“Aye. And they will be here someday, when I return.”

“Benjamin, I–”

“No,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Say nothing more except goodbye. Bid me farewell, as your good brother.”

“I cannot.”

“If ever a woman could bear such things, it is you. Look at me, with a smile on your face, so that I might remember it.” He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes hard yet searching, until he dipped his head down. She felt his hand brush over her hair, and then the soft touch of his lips near her ear. He brushed past her, close, but without further contact as he headed for the door. She heard his voice behind her, low and strained with the last few words he might ever speak to her.

“I know ye never truly belonged to me,” he whispered. “But I loved ye once, and I loved ye well. I do not regret that part of it.”

The tears came unbidden as she heard him walk away and the door flapped shut behind him. She settled there, wishing there was another way to keep him close, not for her selfish heart, but for his family and all those who loved him.

But even the asking of it was too much. She could not bear to wound him further. He was right, she could see it then.

She looked down at the twisted scar on her palm. As she closed her fingers around the time travel brand, suddenly things seemed clear. Had Marcus not said her blood was powerful? That it was so dangerous it must be protected? That the secret of time travel lay squarely in her hands?

“Maggie? Are ye here?” Rebecca called. Maggie swung around, her hands shaking with the realization of what she meant to do.

“Would you stay with Kwetii until I return?” she asked the younger woman. Her shimmering curls bounced as Rebecca nodded.

“Of course. But will ye not come to the Northern Hall?”

“I will. I have something to do first.”

Maggie avoided looking into her friend’s searching eyes as she brushed past her, clutching her mantle around her shoulders. A dampness in the air betrayed the upcoming storm, and as she made her way to the ridge, she felt the sprinkle of cold raindrops on her face.

Yes, she thought, as she climbed to the peak. Her legs ached from her rapid gait and her lungs felt the stress of the journey as she reached the clearing. As she stood, trying to slow her breaths, she looked down upon the ship below. White tipped waves splashed into the vessel, rocking the final resting place of her beloved friend as the men below filled it with gifts. She could see the line of warriors and women, even the children, and although they were small at the distance she stood from them, she could see their arms filled with treasures intended to ease his journey.

None of it needed to happen. She had the power to change it, didn’t she? Winn had suffered without a father his entire life because of her blood. Countless others unknown had given their vow to protect the Blooded Ones. Marcus had given his life.

“I know ye think ye have no power here, Maggie. But ye have it all, ye just don’t know it yet.”

She took the bone-handled knife from her waist. No, she did not know how to control it. If her Bloodstone could take her to another time, could spilling a greater amount trigger the magic? She recalled Harald’s story of Chief Drustan, and how he said all the blood of a Chief Protector, or that of a Blooded MacMhaolian, could send a ship through time. She knew the others feared the magical power, but Marcus had believed enough in her blood to spend his life in service of protecting it. Perhaps it was as simple as draining her vein and demanding her wishes be done. Then they would all wake up, together again, before death took Marcus.

She lifted her chin against the wind, the rain now needles spiking her skin. Her shift was soaked through, sticking to her skin, her cloak feeling heavy with the dampness over her shoulders. She shrugged the cloak away and it fell to a heap at her feet.

“Listen to me, Odin! Whoever you are! I want him back, do you hear me! I want him returned to me! Take my blood, and bring him back!” she screamed into the rain. A crash of thunder rolled close overhead as she drew the knife across her forearm. She felt no sting as she watched the blood trickle down her wrist and drip to the ground. “Bring him back!”

The wind continued to howl, whipping her hair back off her face as she confronted the storm. She felt the fight leave her body as her demands went unanswered. As she covered her face with her hands, she heard his footsteps behind her on the wet grass.

Winn pulled her into his arms and slipped her fallen cloak over her shoulders. When he spotted the blood he uttered a sigh. He ripped the edge of his tunic and bound her wrist with the strip of fine cloth. It seemed fitting that he stemmed her bleeding with the garment of a Chief. Had they not already died to protect it? Her precious, useless, magical blood?

“You’ll catch your death up here,” he said softly, his blue eyes gleaming sadly down at her.

“I want to bring him back. Get Finola, or Gwen, and make them show me how,” she demanded. She grabbed hold of his tunic with fisted hands. “Please. Please, Winn.”

“No, ntehem,” he said.

“This is something I can do! I can make this right, I can bring him back! I’m the one who has this power, right? I’m the only one left to do it!”

“Yes, you can. You can bring him back,” he said softly. “You can travel back in time to stop it. You can take us all to another place. But you must not.”

“I must,” she replied.

“How would you change things, Maggie? Would you change the day I was born, or the day the Norse came here? Would you change the visions of my uncle, or bring back the men he killed? Would you change the day you bloodied your hand and came through time for me? Is that what you would change? Our future lies here. Death is part of it. Living is more of it. This life here, this is our future. Yes, you can change it if you wish…but I know that you must not.” His hand slipped down over the gentle swell of her belly. No, she had not told him yet.

“I don’t know what will happen. I can’t see the future like Finola can.”

“I see it. I see our son, here with us. He laughs at his foolish father, and loves his brave mother…so very much,” Winn answered. He sank to his knees before her on the sodden ground, placing his forehead to her belly. “Tell your mother to give me her hand, my son. Tell her I will stand by her side in this life, and always.”

She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, sinking down beside him on the damp ground as she closed her eyes to the tears and pain that tore through her soul. The scent of his skin, of earth and of her tears, sent her deeper into his embrace, his lips closing over hers. She savored the strength, and took hold of his hand, twisting her fingers through his.

“I love you too, warrior,” she whispered, both to her husband and to their unborn son.

Maggie felt numb as they joined the others on the sand. The villagers stood on the beach as Finola lit the funeral pyre with a torch, setting the Longboat aflame. The fire quickly rose high above, snapping and roaring like a beast unto itself as it consumed the last essence of the Chief’s earthly body, the heat of its fury licking their skin. Winn’s arm tightened on her waist and she leaned into him as Gwen began to sing. She had a beautiful voice, the sweet trill echoing in the smoky air as she cried her song of sorrow.

As the ship drifted out toward the ocean, a glimpse of movement caught her eye. High on the ridge up above where she had tried to change the course of their destiny, Benjamin and Makedewa sat mounted on their horses, watching those below. Rebecca saw them as well, her eyes glistening as she stood beside Gwen.

She felt Winn adjust his hand on her hip as he followed her gaze upward. He stood motionless for a moment, staring at the two men, and then slowly unsheathed the sword at his side.

It had belonged to his grandfather, and it shimmered in the remnants of the pale sunlight as he raised it high above his head. She heard the sounds of metal weapons drawn, and around them, the remaining men copied Winn’s gesture, pointing their swords toward the ridge.

Makedewa and Benjamin echoed the salute, thrusting their swords above their heads. The two travelers gave a silent acknowledgement to the new Chief, and then they turned their horses towards their journey.

Winn squeezed her hand, and she held his tight.

“Return soon, my brothers,” Winn whispered.

INSIDE THIS HEART

BOOK 3

Elizabeth City, Virginia Colony

1626

Benjamin

BENJAMIN EMPTIED THE last of his ale and set his tankard down, his eyes scanning the inn for a glimpse of the brown-haired serving girl. She was a feisty lass. He had watched earlier in the evening as she waylaid the clumsy attentions of several Englishmen, swatting their groping paws as she busied about her duties. With more than a bit of annoyance he wondered where she had gone off to, and why she was not refilling his drink.

“Enough yet?” Makedewa asked. Benjamin looked up at his Indian companion, shaking his head despite the glare of contempt the lean warrior bestowed upon him.

“No. I’ll have one more,” he answered. He lifted his hand to beckon the serving girl near the stairwell, pleased when she nodded an acknowledgement in his direction.

“Ah, kemata tepahta!” Makedewa cursed. Instead of pulling up the bench beside him, Makedewa muttered a few coarse words in Paspahegh and then left, swinging his fur-lined cloak around as he stalked away. Benjamin watched him shoulder through a few teetering Englishmen as he made his way to the door.

“Fine then,” Benjamin sighed. They both needed a break after traveling together so long. Benjamin adjusted the long handled axe harnessed on his back with a sigh as he sat back in the rickety chair. Although it had been less than a year since they left the Norse village it seemed like much longer, yet not long enough to chase her memory away in a permanent manner. Even as he sat there, allowing his mind to wander to that forbidden place, he knew it was better to leave those things buried. The feel of her soft pale skin beneath his fingers, the honey-kissed scent of her auburn hair close to his lips… those were things he needed to forget. It was the reason he left the only true home he had ever known, and it was his mission to bear.

Forget Maggie, the wife of his brother. A simple thing, yet one he was not ready to do. At least not until he had another drink.

“More, sir?” the girl asked, pausing with a jug of fresh ale perched over his tankard.

“Fill it. Took ye long enough,” he muttered. The utterance seemed to come from some dark place he did not recognize, the voice of a fallen man he did not wish to know. Apparently, she did not care for his tone either, and she slammed his mug back down on the table with a thud, spilling most of it in his lap.

“Bloody sod!” she snapped. He had enough good sense left to be somewhat ashamed of his behavior, so when she turned to leave he grabbed her hand. Her mantle of brown hair fell across her face when she swung on him in a fury.

“My apology, mistress,” he said as she yanked. He was about to let her go when suddenly her hand went limp and her tawny eyes softened. He regretted his clumsy attempt at chivalry as she stared down at him with a curious look on her face.

“No, sir, no need. I’ve been busy, and I dinna see ye needed more,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. He tried to drop her hand but then her second hand tightened around his as well.

“Well, no harm, then. Carry on with ye,” he replied, a bit unsettled but willing to brush off the uncomfortable episode.

“Sir, might I ask a favor of ye?” she said. Her eyes darted briefly toward the tavern bar, where the innkeeper stood watching them. Benjamin saw the pulse throbbing in her throat and she suddenly appeared afraid.

“A favor?”

“I’ve not made enough tonight for my employer. Might I take ye upstairs to earn a bit of coin? I’m quite good at my job, sir,” she murmured.

Benjamin stared hard at her. So that was her game? Only a working girl, picking her customers? Well, he might be tied down by memories of what he had lost, but he was not that far gone to buy the affection of a woman. He leaned forward and looked her in the eye.

“No thank ye, mistress. I’ll be on my way now,” he snapped.

“Please. He will beat me if I don’t take ye upstairs. He’s a fearsome man, I’m barely healed from the last time!” she pleaded.

He paused in his attempt to flee, looking down at her hand on his arm. A memory of the beating Maggie had endured at the hands of an Englishman entered his thoughts, the remembrance of her bruised and battered skin tearing through his resolve. No, he would not wish such a thing on any woman, even one who earned her living peddling her body for coin.

Funny, he thought, as he nodded his consent. She did not look like a harlot. He had not known any, but she certainly was not what he envisioned one might be. She was a tiny thing, barely reaching his shoulder with the top of her head. A full mane of russet brown hair graced her narrow shoulders, and by Odin’s tooth he had to admit her snug corset was filled out in a pleasing manner.

“Fine. I’ll go with ye. For show,” he agreed. He followed her up the stairs, avoiding the stares of the men and the assortment of laughs that accompanied them. He prayed Makedewa would not come asking for him anytime soon.

He rented the first room at the end of the hall, so he opened the door and shoved her inside. It should be sufficient enough to please the innkeeper and save her from a beating. He paced away from her and cleared his throat, and when he turned back to her she had a smile on her face that did not reassure him in the least. She threw herself into his arms, knocking them both forcefully back onto the narrow bed.

“Get off me, woman!” he barked. She ignored his request and settled astride him, her hands pressing him back into the feathered mattress.

“I just want to thank ye, my lord,” she insisted, fumbling with the buttons of his clothes. He placed his hands on her waist in order to forcibly remove her, but she snuggled down over him and ran her mouth over his neck. Great Odin. Sweet Jesus. What was she doing?

“Stop it, lass,” he croaked, his voice completely unconvincing.

“Ye wear a strange pendant, sir. Might I see it?”

He stiffened at the request. Yes, he wore a copper-wrapped Bloodstone around his neck, but surely she could not see it. His shirt fell open a bit since he’d loosened it in his cups, yet it was not enough to see the pendant that lay against his skin.

He rose up to a sitting position, taking her with him. As he tried to shove her away she clung like a snake, her eyes fastened on the twisted scar upon his palm. She grabbed hold of his hand. Her jaw dropped open, and he felt his blood drain to his feet.

Whoever she was, whatever she knew, he would not stay to find out. He jerked his hand from her grasp and pushed her onto the bed, running one hand reflexively over his hip to assure himself his knife was still sheathed there. With that confirmation he made for the door.

“Wait!” she called out.

The squared outline of a man blocked the gleam of moonlight from the doorway, and with a sliver of sickness streaking through his gut he knew he was correct on his earlier assumption.

She was undoubtedly no simple working girl.

Makedewa

MAKEDEWA DISAPPEARED BACK into the shadows near the hearth as two rather large men hauled Benjamin down the stairwell. He did not recognize the Englishmen so he had no idea why they meant to retain his companion, yet it appeared the serving woman had a bit to do with the scuffle since she followed them outside. He wondered if Benjamin had insulted her and earned himself a beating. It was not likely since he knew the man to be a soft-hearted clod, but he could render no other explanation for the predicament.

Benjamin seemed strangely subdued until Makedewa realized why his friend did not struggle. There was a knife pressed into his flank, held as a warning by one of the burly strangers. Although Benjamin had his captors beaten in both height and brawn, even he was not senseless enough to fight a trio of armed men by himself.

Makedewa waited to see them take a path down the cobble lined street, keeping out of the moonlight so he would not draw their attention. If the woman spotted him she would alert the others, since he was certain she had seen him talking to Benjamin earlier.

They brought him behind the tavern into a clearing where one man knocked him to his knees. He flinched as the second man struck Benjamin in the head, but Makedewa did not move in. There was little chance he could take three large men, especially if Benjamin was wounded, so his only chance was to watch and wait. Hoping an opportunity would arise soon, he crouched down behind the trees to listen.

“Stop bashing him, ye fool! He canna speak if he has no teeth!” one of the men shouted. Apparently the more intelligent of the two, the man was difficult to see in the shred of moonlight. Taller than Benjamin and boasting a bald head, the man held the look of a seasoned warrior. A long beard hung from his round face, and he wore the clothes of a laborer.

Another man kicked Benjamin in the belly, sending him sprawling onto the dirt with a moan. Makedewa could see his hands scrape at the earth so he knew his companion still lived.

“Ah, Reinn! Then tell us, Blooded One! Where do ye come from? What’s your name?”

Benjamin rolled over onto his side, one hand clutching his belly as he spit out a mouthful of blood.

“My name is Benjamin Dixon. Ye have me mistaken for another,” Benjamin said. Reinn, the sensible man in the bunch, kneeled down beside Benjamin. He pointed a blade at his throat, flicking his wrist to draw a trickle of blood forth. Benjamin continued to stare at his captor, his eyes set in defiance as his chest heaved with each breath.

“Waste my time lying, boy, and I’ll cut yer throat. The Seer found yer mark, she saw yer Bloodstone. When do ye travel from, and where is yer kin?”

Benjamin glared at the man.

“I have no kin. I traveled to this time alone, I have no one. Cut my throat if ye will, it matters not to me,” he muttered.

Reinn stood up, glancing at the others. He reached out suddenly and grabbed the woman by the throat, shoving her over to Benjamin. He threw her onto the ground.

“Get the truth from him, Jora. If he lies, he will die.”

The woman looked up as if to protest, glancing back at the others at first, but then she reached out slowly to Benjamin with both hands. He shrank back away from her touch.

“I willna hurt ye,” she said.

“And why should I believe yer lies, now, lass?” he replied.

“Just be still, ye stubborn clout. Ye want to live, don’t ye?” she hissed. He appeared to consider that for a brief moment and then let her touch him.

She placed her palms against his bloodied cheeks and closed her eyes. The men fell silent as she held onto Benjamin, and then she sighed and her mouth fell slightly open.

“He speaks true,” she said softly. “He has no kin.”

Makedewa wondered if she was either a terrible Seer, or if she lied for some reason unknown. Benjamin stared at the woman for a long moment.

“Then I’m no use to ye,” Benjamin said.

With a shallow laugh, Reinn shook his bald head, and the other two men chuckled as well. Jora sat back away from Benjamin, her face clouded with a blank stare.

“Well, I wouldna say that,” Reinn replied. He waved a hand at the others. “Bring him, men. Master Sturlusson will want to meet him.”

The strangers hauled him to his feet. Makedewa watched them shove Benjamin into the back of a covered wagon. When they left him attended by a single Englishman and the others returned to the tavern, Makedewa took the chance and stole over to the wagon.

As the lone man stood leaning against the wagon, Makedewa closed the distance between them with a few careful steps. With a blow to the temple the stranger collapsed to the ground, and he wasted no time in swinging up into the wagon. Makedewa reached for Benjamin’s wrists to cut the binding, and was shocked when his friend pulled sharply away.

“We must go! They’ll not be long gone!” Makedewa snapped. Benjamin shook his head as if clearing cobwebs from his cluttered brain. Why was the stupid man dallying?

“No. Leave me. They are my kind, I will know what they know,” Benjamin answered. “Tell Winn…tell him to stay away. Tell him I will not return to the village. Ever.”

Makedewa sat back on his haunches. He heard the door to the tavern slam, and the sound of voices arguing nearby. He could not make the fool leave if he did not wish to, and if Makedewa stayed much longer he would be a prisoner as well.

So this is how it would be. They would part ways, their journey had ended. Makedewa sheathed his knife and gave Benjamin a curt nod.

“May your Gods keep you, brother,” he said. Benjamin grimaced in acknowledgement, and Makedewa jumped down off the wagon.

Although Benjamin made his intent to stay with the strangers clear, Makedewa tracked them to their destination, a tobacco farm outside of Elizabeth City. It appeared active, and to his dismay, brimming with activity. He laid in the tall grass watching for more than an hour, during which time a man arrived escorted by a small detachment of English soldiers. The newcomer was dressed extravagantly and the King’s men obeyed his command, and by the time Makedewa was satisfied with his surveillance he knew one thing for certain. The leader was a wealthy man, one who had the King’s men at his disposal. Perhaps Benjamin had not been so foolish after all in his quest to discover their motives.

When he made his way back toward the Norse village later that night he felt some comfort that he knew where Benjamin could be found. It was information Winn would surely wish to know.

Yet the image that caused a throb in the very hollow of his chest was that of a golden-haired woman, smiling and happy to see him. With each step closer to the village the ache grew stronger.

Things had been left unsaid between them, but he was at least sure she knew his intention to return. She had given him a pledge of her love, after all that had happened between them and to them, and it was those words that he clung to each lonely night when he slept under the stars. Although it had been nearly a year since he had held her, he recalled every detail as if she stood next to him.

He had saved her from the massacre and slain the man who attacked her, and then watched her grow older in the care of his family for two years. Two long years he had watched her, spoke kindly to her, given her tokens of his devotion, all under the pureness of friendship as they lived together. She had been only fifteen on the day of the Great Assault, yet even then she had captured part of his blackened heart. No woman before had ever caught his attention, and he knew no other ever would.

On the day they finally breached the barrier of friendship with a few innocent kisses, he could no longer go back to watching her in silence. It tore his heart to shreds when she said she could not be a wife to him, because she still saw the ghost of that Indian who hurt her when she thought of being a true wife to him. There had been many wrongs done to Makedewa in his life, but he could think of nothing more horrible as when Rebecca confessed her fears that day.

“I am sorry,” she whispered, her lip trembling. She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Perhaps we should just…lay together. I will not stop ye. Then perhaps it will be easier.”

Her suggestion tore through him like a blade.

“I fear the ghost of that man will always haunt me.”

So he took it upon himself to give her time. He claimed he needed a great adventure before they could wed, but she saw through his game. In the end it was what was best for them both, he was certain of it.

After all, he had waited two years in silence to win her heart. It belonged to him, of that he had no doubt. Now it was up to her to choose him. He could only hope that Rebecca was yet ready to walk beside him, because once he returned he knew he would never leave her again.

Jora

HE WAS A BRAWN man, standing as tall as her companions, but there was something else about him that bothered her. As he sat bound and gagged in the corner of the wagon, glaring at her with his slate blue eyes, a sense of familiarity washed through her. She brushed it off, attributing it to the visions. Of course, it could be nothing but that. When she sought to see the past of a man it sometimes happened, that sickly feeling of melting into the heart and mind as if she were part of the past instead of only watching it.

Benjamin Dixon. Yes, she knew he lied, but for now she kept that gem to herself. The others would have killed him if they knew what she truly envisioned, and she had far too many questions for the lone Norseman to let him die so quickly. She would get what she needed from him before she revealed any more of his secrets.

She kneeled down beside him with a flask of water, raising her hand in warning to him.

“Do not call out, or it goes back on,” she murmured. She pulled the gag down away from his mouth and raised the cup to his lips. He said nothing as he drank, his gaze locked on hers. She had no doubt he would wrap his fingers around her neck if he were free.

“Where do ye come from, for the truth, Benjamin Dixon?” she asked quietly. She took liberties in questioning him, feeling secure in her safety knowing the others were close by.

He clenched his jaw even tighter. Well, he was a stubborn one, for sure, but she had never met a man she could not read. A glimpse of a beautiful red-haired woman filled her, and the emotions he felt surged into her blood.

There was a woman he left, and a child. Did the child belong to him? She did not know. The place was unfamiliar as well, she had never seen such a settlement within the confines of the English colony. Up in the hills, perhaps? She felt a hint of the Indians, and of a battle. The bow of a Norse ship, and a fiery funeral rite.

He was a man who knew Odin, but did not fully worship him. He was a man who lost a red-haired woman, one he longed for even still. Perhaps he had lost the child as well. He jerked away when she touched his face with two hands, but he could not move while bound and she kept her hands firmly in place.

His ache assaulted her, filling her with such yearning and despair that she drew abruptly away, frustrated at her inability to read him fully. There were few men powerful enough to keep his thoughts from her; unfortunately he was one of them.

“Why do ye hide your past from me?” she asked.

“Why must ye know it?” he finally answered. She sat back on her heels at his side. His dark hair fell forward over his eyes, hooding his gaze with even more menace.

“My Chief will ask, and he will not be as polite as I. Ye’d fare better if ye tell me yer secrets, Norseman. I can see the place ye hail from, yet not where – or when – it is.”

“Yer visions are wrong. You should have more practice in yer craft,” he replied.

She laughed.

“Nay. I see yer red-haired woman, as well. What say you to that?” she murmured.

The sniping was finished with that revelation. His throat constricted and he clamped his lips into a tight line.

“No words now?” she taunted him.

He shifted against his bonds, his arms straining on the rope. She shook her head sadly as she turned away from him.

“So your Chief keeps whores, now? Is that what yer about?”

Her shoulders stiffened at his insult and she swung around to face him.

“I’m no whore.”

“Oh, no?” he replied.

“I’m a Seer. Much more valuable than that,” she snapped. Seeing the smirk on his face, she leaned down in front of him, so close she could kiss him. If that had been something she was interested in, which she was not.

“Best ye quiet down now,” she said, raising the gag back to his mouth. Suddenly his hands shot out, one around her throat, the other fisted in her hair. She let out a strangled squeak and tried to squirm away, but he tackled her to the bed of the wagon, slamming her head into the straw as her vision exploded in a shimmer of light.

“Best ye tell me why I’m here!” he growled.

She would have answered him then, but her ribs were strained to breaking by the weight of his body on hers. Struggling to take in a breath, she continued to thrash, and although she was fighting for air he refused to yield. With both her hands pinned to his chest and their strangled breaths nearly in unison, a vision of his past ran through her. She fought the surge of tears that threatened her own eyes, the searing force of his anguish too much for her to bear.

What had happened to this man? And why did he hide it, even when his own life was threatened for it?

“Please,” she whispered. His blue eyes softened when tears rolled down her face. “I canna stand it! Please, get off me!”

He propped his weight upon his elbows but continued to hold her down, looking curiously at her as she fought back the tears. Being so close to him with their skin touching and their bodies melded like lovers, it was simply too much for her to absorb. She could not abide the force of his tortured thoughts as they twisted into hers.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Get me out of here, I’ll leave ye be.” His cheeks were flushed on his chagrined face. “I dinna mean to hurt ye.”

“It’s not that, you oaf!” she cried. She shoved at his chest and he let her go, sitting up beside her as she wiped away the tears. “It’s yer bloody memories. I can feel them all. That’s why they put ye here with me, so I could see what’s in yer heart.”

“Then you see the truth. There is nothing of worth there,” he muttered. He untied the remnants of his wrist bindings as she stared at him.

If not for that moment, she would have helped him leave. The despair that emanated from him was a thick fog, drenching her thoughts to a murky confusion she thought she might never recover from.

Until she had a glimpse of what he guarded so carefully.

“No,” she said, staring up at him. It made no sense, but her visions had never led her astray. The lug of a Norseman sitting in front of her was no random drifter, and with a trickle of fear running over her skin like needles she realized Master Sturlusson would never let him go.

“A Blooded One. A MacMhaolian, a powerful Time Walker. You’re hiding her,” she whispered.

She closed her eyes when Reinn climbed into the wagon, wishing she held the power of time travel in her own hands at that moment. Her companion shoved a burlap sack over Benjamin’s head, and the wagon continued on the journey home.

Benjamin

BENJAMIN FELT THE rocking of the wagon beneath him slow to a stop. His head was covered with a hood, but when he glanced down, he could see his newly bound hands resting in his lap against the gleam of moonlit darkness. The scent of burning wood drifted to his senses, evidence of a fire nearby. He knew it was still evening, and that they had taken him some distance away from the town tavern, but other than that he knew very little. Whatever his captors planned for him, they chose to do their business outside of Elizabeth City.

“Git down, ye bloke,” Reinn ordered, jerking Benjamin off of the wagon. Benjamin stumbled but was wrenched upward by his wrists, and at the same moment someone yanked the hood off of his head. His ears throbbed from being struck and his vision was blurred as he tried to acclimate to his surroundings.

“Stop pushing him,” another voice interrupted.

It was the woman.

Jora. Her name was Jora, and if he did not still consider himself a gentleman, he would wring her lying neck. Benjamin felt like a fool for falling for her plea. She had been smart enough to play on the one thing that would stir him, and that was his reluctance to see a woman harmed. He vowed he would not fall for her games again.

Reinn led him inside a house, with Jora following close behind. It was impossible to determine where they were. It looked like a head-right property, but there were dozens of plantations on the outskirts of Elizabeth City and he had no way to determine which one it was. It was a working farm, however, with smoke curling up from a chimney and the sounds of livestock coming from the barn.

He felt a trickle of sticky blood on the side of his head as Reinn shoved him to the ground. Reinn kicked Benjamin in his side as he glared down at him.

“I warn ye now. Cause any more trouble, and I’ll–”

“Ye’ll what? Ye willna harm him, ye know the Master will have yer head. Fog off, ye half-wit!” Jora interrupted. Reinn seemed to consider her words for a moment, pausing with an amused grin on his face. Suddenly he turned on Jora and grabbed her by the throat.

“Aye, I willna harm him. But ye–I can throttle ye just as well,” Reinn snapped. “Keep him in line, Seer, or I shall hold you accountable!”

Reinn shoved Jora away. She stumbled but quickly regained her footing, glaring defiantly at the man. Reinn muttered a few foul words under his breath and sat down at the table, where he poured himself a drink. Reinn tipped his cup to Jora as if in salute, a surly grin on his lips.

Jora crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes set on the door. Despite the ringing in his ears, Benjamin could hear voices outside, and he could see it made Jora nervous. Whatever they had in store for him, he wished they would reveal it. He knew these were the kind of people his father had warned him of, those who would someday come for the blooded MacMhaolian. They had already recognized him as a Blooded One, so it was up to him to satisfy the duty he had sworn to Marcus on his deathbed.

Protect the blooded MacMhaolian, above all else. The secret of time-travel was ours to bear, ours to guard.

The door swung open. A man entered the room, and for a moment Benjamin felt his gaze swirling in a haze. The outline of the man’s body mimicked that of Marcus, and as Benjamin closed his eyes he could imagine it was his father standing there. Yet when he opened his eyes, it was not Marcus, but a stranger staring down at him with a mane of finely coiffed blond hair. The man was attired in the clothes of an Englishmen, but his demeanor was clearly Norse. He wore a heavy wool cloak that sat perched over his wide shoulders, and his square face was bereft of any sign of weakness. His stark green eyes stood out like gleaming jade beneath hooded brows as he stared down at Benjamin.

“Yer name, sir,” the man said curtly.

“I told them my name already,” Benjamin muttered. “Dixon. Benjamin Dixon.”

“Yet there’s something more about ye,” the man said. The stranger unfastened his cloak and handed it to Reinn. “My apologies. We should be on a first name basis, if we are to share secrets. I am Agnarr Sturlusson, owner of this land. And ye, what people do ye hail from?”

Benjamin swallowed hard as he considered his response. Damn the woman seer. Apparently she had shared her findings, despite seeming like she wished him no further harm.

“I have no people. It doesna matter,” Benjamin replied.

Agnarr nodded to Reinn, who happily yanked his knife from his belt. Rein advanced on Benjamin as Agnarr grabbed Jora’s hand.

“Then you are no use to me. Come, Jora. You do not need to see this,” Agnarr said.

“No!” Jora screamed, jerking her hand away from Agnarr. “He’s lying! I don’t know where he’s from, but I know he’s one of them! He knows of a blooded MacMhaolian!”

Benjamin closed his eyes. He would have gladly taken his secret to the grave, especially if it meant protecting those he loved. It would have been an honorable death. Yet for some reason the mite of a woman would not let him meet his fate.

“Oh, well. That makes a bit of difference,” Agnarr replied with a smug grin. He hefted his boot up and nudged Benjamin in the chest. “Then ye shall take me to them, sir. If you wish to keep yer life, that is.”

“I willna take ye to anyone. And I care not if ye take my life. Just make it quick, so I might be finished with hearing her yammering,” Benjamin answered, nodding his head toward Jora. “You need a better seer. I think yours is broken.”

Jora bristled at his accusation, clenching her fists as she glared at Benjamin.

“You bloody stupid scag! You’re the son of Dagr Neilsson. Did ye think I dinna see that! I know much more than you think!” Jora spat. As the words crossed her lips, her voice faded into a hoarse whisper, and for a moment Benjamin thought it seemed she wanted to take the revelation back. Agnarr grinned.

“Ah, so that’s it. I suppose you might be of use to me after all.” Agnarr removed the black glove he wore, plucking each finger in a methodical manner. The others remained silent. When Agnarr finished, he looked down upon his own palm, flexing it open and closed, as if he had never seen it before. Then he held his hand out to Benjamin. It was not a gesture of kindness, but one of conveyance. Benjamin felt the pounding in his head grow louder as he looked upon Agnarr’s scarred hand.

Agnarr wore the brand of a Time Walker.

“A Blooded MacMhaolian? One powerful enough to travel through time? Tell me where she is, in this time or another?”

Benjamin clamped his mouth shut and stared back at Agnarr. He would not give them up. He had made his dying father a promise, he had made his vow in blood with that of his only brother. Although he did not fully understand how the magic worked, Benjamin knew that the power Maggie possessed could not fall into the hands of the man standing in front of him.

“So ye need yer tongue loosened?” Agnarr said. He nodded to Jora. “Shall I have Reinn cut her throat? Or will ye tell me yer secrets? Either way is fine with me, lad.”

Jora backed slowly away, her eyes frantic beneath her bold façade. Reinn grinned as Benjamin lowered his head.

As culpable as Jora was to his detainment, Benjamin suspected she was not treated as well as she had led him to believe. Agnarr offered the woman up with little hesitation. Although Benjamin had known the man for only a few moments, he could see Agnarr would not suffer remorse over using her to further his interrogation. By the look on Jora’s face, she knew it as well.

“She was my wife,” Benjamin said softly.

“And?” Agnarr prompted.

“And she is dead,” he added. “She is gone. Dead in the Indian Massacre.”

Benjamin spoke his lie, praying it would be believed.

Agnarr bent down on one knee in front of Benjamin.

“Another lie. Why should I believe you now, son of Chief Dagr?”

“He speaks the truth,” Jora interrupted. “I can see she’s lost to him.”

Benjamin felt his breath catch inside his chest as Agnarr continued to stare at him. Agnarr cocked his head slightly to the side as Jora approached.

“Well, that’s too bad. But ye’ll still serve me well. A fine job Jora, ye’ve been quite useful to me this day.”

Agnarr rose onto his feet and slowly pulled his black glove back on. He glanced at Jora for one long moment, during which she met his gaze.

Benjamin had no time to wonder why she lied for him, but it seemed he might have an ally in the woman. As he watched Agnarr leave with Jora, he let his breath out slowly in relief. He had avoided betraying his kin with his lies, but as he watched Jora walk away he could only imagine there must be something in it for her as well.

Jora

THE MAN WAS an idiot, and he was going to get them all killed with his lies.

She crossed her arms and leaned back against the wagon as they men spoke a few paces away. She had never seen Agnarr so unhinged, and it did not give her any sense of comfort to know he had nearly served up her blood to get the truth from Benjamin. Agnarr was neither a kind man nor a foolish one, and although he had now treated her as a valued member of the clan she knew down deep in her heart that she was nothing to him. Jora had listened to Reinn’s stories, and she had even seen glimpses of the truth on the rare occasions when Agnarr had allowed her to touch him with two hands. If Benjamin was hiding a Blooded MacMhaolian, Agnarr would let nothing stand in the way of recovering her. Agnarr was a man obsessed with righting past wrongs. He would never stop.

For a moment she wished she had no special gift, that she was just a normal woman instead of a seer. Jora wondered what it would be like to be regarded in such a simple way. Adopted into Clan Sturlusson as an orphaned child, she had regarded Agnarr as a substitute father, but as she grew into womanhood and her powers became evident, everything changed. Once Agnarr learned she could see into the hearts of men, she became nothing more than another tool for him to use in his quest. Long ago he had loved a Blooded MacMhaolian, but she had been taken from him by the Neilsson Chief Dagr. It was not the desire of a heartbroken man, however. It was merely the quest of a man who wanted control of a powerful magic.

According to Reinn, long ago all the clans had Blooded Ones living among them. Once it had been a common thing, for the Norse Chiefs to marry the most powerful of the Blooded Ones and for the magic to be shared among the clans. The sacred magic, although powerful, was often fatal to the bearer, so a time came when all the Blooded Ones were nearly eradicated from the use of unscrupulous Chieftains. Yet one day the Neilsson Chief held the last Blooded MacMhaolian family and claimed them as his own, only to be used in service of the Neilsson clan. Nearly all of the clans bowed down and agreed to terms. All except for the Sturlusson Clan.

Agnarr vowed to recover the power taken from his clan, and restore a Blooded One to his family lineage, no matter what the cost. He would do anything to find his lost woman, and give back the power of time travel to their clan. Although Agnarr did not possess a Blooded MacMhaolian he was still a formidable man. He had amassed a fortune and had powerful allies among the English settlers. If he ever gained control of one of the mythical Blooded MacMhaolian, Jora shuddered to think what the consequence of his evil could accomplish. Although she feared what Agnarr could do with such power, she feared equally what he would do to her for hiding what she knew from him.

On occasion while she worked in the tavern, Jora discovered a customer who had a bit of the Old Norse blood. It was not often, but it did happen, and although they never had enough magic to be of any use, this time was different. When Benjamin grabbed her hand in the tavern, her visions had exploded in a vivid rush of power she had never witnessed before. His heartbreak flowed through her, as if their minds were melded into one simple being. Later, when they had fought, the feel of his skin upon hers had sent her senses reeling, and she could not bear to endure it again. She hoped Agnarr had no more use for her when it came to Benjamin.

“What else do you see in him, Jora?” Agnarr asked. His voice was curt, but direct, and she knew he suspected she held back from him.

“Only what I have told ye, my lord,” she answered.

“You say he’s the get of Chief Dagr. So he must be from the future, then,” Agnarr muttered, staring at her as if he meant to read the truth in her face.

“I cannot see where he comes from. But I know he is the son of Chief Dagr.”

Agnarr reached out for her. He ran his fingers slowly down her cheek, then to her neck, and finally rested on her shoulder. He held his palm out, expectantly, and she placed both her hands into it. She fought against the tremor and stared up at him, unflinching, as the intensity of his visions filled her mind.

“What do you see now,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes. Although he asked it of her, he did not want her true answer. He wanted to be flattered and fawned over as usual, and she was wise enough to recognize his dangerous mood.

“A red-haired woman. I see her with you. I see you standing beside her, and I see you spill her blood,” she lied smoothly. He smiled. It was a gesture that did not reassure her.

“It seems fate has turned in our favor,” he murmured. When he pulled his hand away from her shoulder, she suppressed the urge to jerk away from him. Inside his soul was nothing but darkness.

“The blood of a Neilsson Chief is nearly as powerful as a MacMhaolian. Rest now, dearest. I will have need of your talents on the morrow.”

She backed away slowly from him, her hip striking the table edge before she turned and fled. Once inside her own tiny room, she shut the door softly and leaned her head against it as she struggled to control her spinning head.

Makedewa

THE ROW OF glass lanterns glimmered through the trees as he approached. The clear globes were strung up in rows from house to house, illuminating the path in a glow of flickering candlelight. It was a beacon to his tired eyes, beckoning him back to the Norse village. Makedewa heard the raucous laughter and the thud of drums from the Northern Hall and he smiled. It seemed nothing had changed in the year he had been gone. The Norse celebrated each night as if it were the last they might live, drinking to their Viking gods and filling their bellies with food. Although the reason for his visit was one of urgency, it would still be good to be among them once more.

He tethered his horse to a post outside the hall as he glanced inside the open doorway. He was not surprised to see he went unnoticed, but he wished they would take more care by posting sentries at night. Makedewa would speak to the Chief about being more careful. After all, being the brother of the Norse Chief should entitle Makedewa to have his voice heard. Surely Chief Winn would take his advice.

Makedewa spotted his brother sitting at the head table. Winn looked different somehow. Perhaps it was the mantle of fur that covered his shoulders, or the hardness in his etched face, but he had taken on the appearance of a leader and wore it proudly. He no longer wore the shaved scalp of a Powhatan warrior, his dark hair instead falling loose down his back, and Makedewa noticed a new tattoo marking his brother’s neck. For an Indian, tattoos marked a common man; perhaps to the Norse it was the mark of a Chief.

Winn’s wife sat by his side, her long auburn hair flowing over her shoulder as her attention was diverted downward. Makedewa could see a bundle clutched in her arms, a tiny babe pressed up against her breast. So the child had been borne safely, and it appeared that they were all in good spirits.

All the more reason he regretted the intrusion he must make. Makedewa had not planned to return to the village so soon, and as he spotted Rebecca across the hall he was painfully reminded why.

She was turned away from him, so he could only see the outline of her profile as she laughed. She wore a dark grey cloak, her corkscrew curls sprawled in golden ringlets over the thick ermine lined hood. Even so far away, Makedewa could see the flush of her round cheeks, and with an ache hammering deep in his chest he started toward her.

In that moment he could not recall why he was there, or what news he had to bear. He had left the village to give her time; to give her what she needed to be whole until she could decide if she could be his. But now seeing her across the room, all he could think of was holding her in his arms once again. Time itself seemed to slow as he entered the hall. He could be beside her in only a few paces.

“Makedewa!”

The swirl of chaos smothering the hall came to an abrupt halt as his name was called. Tearing his gaze from where Rebecca stood, he turned toward the sound of Winn’s voice. The Chief pushed his way through the crowd, and Makedewa felt his brother clasp his arm in greeting.

“Winkeohkwet,” Makedewa answered. Winn pounded him heartily on the back, his brotherly embrace unbreakable.

“So you’ve returned to us! I had hoped to see you soon, brother,” Winn said. Makedewa sighed as the reasons behind his arrival came back to him in a rush. With the heavy unease surrounding his arrival, he prepared to give his brother his news.

“I did not plan to return yet, but I need your help,” Makedewa answered, glancing back at Rebecca. As Winn gripped his arm tighter, Makedewa spotted Cormaic standing next to Rebecca. He also noticed the Norseman’s hand on Rebecca’s shoulder, as if Cormaic bid her a silent plea to stay at his side.

“What is it? Anything, you know I will give it to you,” Winn said. Rebecca’s eyes finally met his across the room, and Makedewa nodded to her, praying she would understand why he did not come to her before all others.

“It’s Benjamin,” Makedewa said, tearing his eyes away from Rebecca. “He is in trouble. Two men have him captive. They have a woman they call a Seer. And they know he is a Blooded One.”

Winn’s jaw tightened as he gripped Makedewa’s arm.

“We’ll speak outside. No need to worry the women,” Winn muttered. The Chief looked back to Erich, who stood watching from a spot near the mead barrel, and the older man read the unspoken order in his gaze. As Erich left the festivities to join them, Makedewa followed his brother out of the Long house, leaving the others to their festivities.

Chetan joined them as well. Makedewa grunted a Paspahegh greeting to his older brother as other men gathered with them outside. It would be difficult to tell Winn the truth. Benjamin and Winn shared a Norse father, and Makedewa was brother to Winn by their Paspahegh mother. Although Makedewa did not share blood with Benjamin he still considered him kin, yet he knew Winn would feel this loss deeper than anyone else. Winn’s face was stoic, but Makedewa knew him enough to read the concern in his hooded eyes. Despite all that transpired between Benjamin and Winn, the young Chief would do anything to help his Norse brother.

“Are they Englishmen? Where do they keep him?” Winn asked.

“They look English, but they sound like Norsemen,” Makedewa said. “One man’s name was Reinn, and there was a woman Seer they called Jora. She works as a serving wench in the tavern. I think they do not wish to kill him. They took him to a tobacco farm near Elizabeth City.”

Winn darted a glance at Erich, who shook his head.

“Reinn? If it was him, then we must act quickly. We need to fetch Benjamin before the lad tells him anything,” Erich said.

“What do you know of this man?” Winn asked, clearly impatient with his wife’s uncle. “Tell me all of it.”

Winn had taken the title of Chief upon the death of his Norse father, and he brought his experience in leading the Paspahegh to his new role. It was evident, however, that Winn trusted Erich as he navigated the delicate task of leading the Norse.

“Reinn is an old enemy of ours, loyal to the Sturlusson clan. This feud is older than all of us, my lord,” Erich said. “Generations ago, a blooded MacMhaolian saved the life of a Chief, one of yer own bloodline. In return, the MacMhaolian asked the Chief to protect the blooded MacMhaolians, to keep the other Chiefs from abusing the magic. In those days, men fought to control the Blooded MacMhaolians, and they used them against the good of nature. Some Chieftains traveled back in time to change things. The MacMhaolians knew it must be stopped, that time-travel should not be used on the foolish whim of greedy men. Your kin made the blood vow to protect them, and gave their lives to do so. Most of the Chiefs did not challenge the new way. But the Chief of Clan Sturlusson would not accept it, and he has tried ever since to gain control of the blooded MacMhaolian once more. Agnarr Sturlusson nearly succeeded with my sister, and that is why Dagr and Malcolm took her to the future.”

Erich paused, his eyes downcast. “Reinn and Agnarr traveled with us through time. They were taken as prisoners during a battle with the Sturlusson clan, they came with us as thralls. They escaped with a few others when we landed here. They bear only ill will to our clan.”

“Then why now? What use can my brother be to them?” Winn asked.

“They know the power of the Chief’s blood. Agnarr must know who Benjamin is. He’ll stop at nothing to have a blooded MacMhaolian, and if yer brother has given us up, none of us will be safe. The Sturlusson clan has always used the sacred magic for their own needs. Ye say he has a seer?” Erich asked, directing his question to Makedewa.

“She’s not very skilled. She either lies to her own people, or she thinks Benjamin has no clan. I do not think he will give up the village to them,” Makedewa answered. “He told them his name is Dixon, and he denied having any kin. But there is more, brother,” he added. Makedewa met Winn’s stare, waiting for permission to continue. Winn would not like what Makedewa needed to tell him.

“Go on,” Winn said.

“I stole inside to aid him, and he sent me away. He asked me to tell you to stay away. And then he said he would join them.”

A sigh emanated from Erich, and the older man lowered his head.

“Benjamin would not betray us,” Winn said quietly.

No one spoke in reply. Every sinew in Winn’s neck stood taut as the Chief glared at them all, and for the first time in his life Makedewa could not meet his eyes with shared confidence.

“At least they willna kill him,” Erich finally murmured. “If they know he’s a Blooded One, they want him alive. Do ye know if he still has his Bloodstone?”

“I could not tell,” Makedewa replied.

Winn turned away from the men and walked off a few paces, his fists clenched at his sides. When his voice finally surfaced, strangled and low, he still did not face them.

“Benjamin cannot travel. He’s tried to use the Bloodstone and failed once before. Will they kill him if he’s no use to them?” Winn asked, referring to the time Maggie had given Benjamin his Bloodstone. Benjamin had failed to travel through time, instead ending up in the same place he had left, only two years later. Although Benjamin was the son of the Chief, it seemed he was not powerful enough to bend time to his will, even with a Bloodstone. Makedewa feared the foolish Norseman might bargain with a talent he did not possess.

“He’s of use to them, if he can Time Walk or not,” Erich said. “He’s of the Chief’s blood. Even being the second son, the Neilsson Chief’s blood still runs through him. And he traveled here once as a boy, remember? There must be some magic in his veins. That’s still of value to people like Agnarr.”

“Can we fight them?” Winn asked.

“Aye. We can. They may have magic among them, but they fall like any other man on a sword,” Erich agreed. “But I think it best we wait. If yer brother has joined them–”

“Benjamin has not betrayed us!” Winn bellowed, swinging around. The tone of his declaration left no room for argument; it was evident the Chief would hear no question of Benjamin’s loyalty. “Gather the men. Tell them to prepare to leave on my word. Tell them to be ready.”

Erich nodded in deference and left them to do his Chief’s bidding. Chetan and Makedewa remained with Winn.

“This is not your fight, brothers,” Winn said quietly once they were alone. Chetan scowled at the Chief.

“Right. As if I will let you foolish Norsemen die alone,” Chetan scoffed. “Of course it is my fight. You are my brother. Your fight is mine.”

Chetan reached out and placed his hand on Winn’s shoulder, and Winn dropped his chin with a grimace as Makedewa clasped the other shoulder.

“And mine,” Makedewa added. “Who else will save your sorry hides? Humph. There will be no fight without me.”

Winn nodded in agreement, relief washing over his face. Makedewa laughed then, wondering how much his brother had changed in the year they had spent apart. Winn would never have questioned his loyalty. Did Norse pick and choose when to stand by their Chief? Makedewa could not imagine not having his brothers by his side in any battle.

“Thank you,” Winn said. “Take your rest, brothers. I know not when we will need to fight, but it is near. Be ready.”

Makedewa followed the Chief inside. At the entrance, Chetan grabbed his arm and held Makedewa back as Winn made his way through the crowd to Maggie. Although he was a wise leader and a ferocious warrior, Winn sought his wife’s counsel on most matters, and Makedewa could see this instance would be no exception.

“I see Fire Heart still tells him what to do,” Makedewa muttered, more to himself than to Chetan. Chetan grinned.

“No, she does not tell him. He asks her, and she agrees,” Chetan laughed. “He speaks softly to her and she does his bidding. Just as you will speak softly to Rebecca. Go see her, brother,” Chetan urged. Makedewa shrugged off his brother with a harsh growl, leaving the older warrior laughing at the door.

As he pushed through the crowd toward Rebecca, he could see her eyes focused upon him and a smile on her face. Relief flooded through his blood. It was happiness on her face that greeted him, from the glimmer in her bright eyes to the flush across her fair skin, and he suddenly forgot for the moment why he had returned to the village. All he could focus on was getting close to her.

Neither spoke when they connected. He shoved through several pairs of burly shoulders to reach her, and when she was finally close enough he merely took her outstretched hands in his.

As he drew her close, she stared up into his face. He could smell her sweet honeysuckle soap, and see the pulse throb in her throat. Barely able to keep his hands from shaking, he bent his lips to her ear.

“Will you walk with me?” he asked. Someone elbowed him, and they were shoved together. She ended up squashed against his chest, her cheeks erupting into a scarlet flush.

“Yes, please,” she agreed breathlessly. He took her hand firmly in his and led her outside, away from the chaos of the crowd. Although they had privacy just outside the Northern Hall, he led her down the path where the candles cast a muted glow to guide the way. When he was certain they were far from prying eyes, he abruptly stopped. He wanted nothing more to pull her into the shadows and kiss her senseless, but had had learned something about restraint in the time they had been apart. He would not act like a stag in heat. She deserved much more than that.

Instead, he struggled to slow his breathing, waiting for her to say something, anything, to indicate what she wanted.

“Have ye returned to stay, Makedewa?” she finally asked.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat.

“I came back for another matter,” he stammered. “When it is resolved, I will be here to stay.”

Her brows squinted downward, and she ducked her eyes away from his.

“So ye did not return to see me?” she whispered.

He closed his eyes briefly with a sigh, at loss to make her understand. With a gentle pressure on their entwined fingers, he urged her closer into his arms, pressing his cheek against hers.

“Of course I am here to see you, chulentet,” he murmured. She turned her chin toward him as the breath caught in his throat, her lips so close to his that he could stand it no longer.

“Did ye have a great journey? Are ye stronger now?” she whispered. Her lips bent upward into a tiny smile, her voice teasing and light.

“Oh, yes. I am much stronger now,” he said hoarsely.

“Then I am glad ye have returned,” she answered.

The deep hollow sound of a horn pierced the air, calling the warriors to their Chief. Makedewa pressed his lips into her hair as he held her close. He wanted to stay with her, but at his brother’s call he was bound to answer. Rebecca knew his duty well, however, and as he stepped away, a smile still graced her lips.

“Sleep well tonight. I will see you when you wake,” he promised.

He followed the bellow of the horn to his brother. Soon his duty would be satisfied, and he would be free to claim her as his own.

Rebecca

SHE SLEPT LITTLE that night. When the first fingers of sunlight broke through the smoke hole above her head she tossed the furs from her body and quickly slid into her best dress. It was a deep green wool over her white eyelet shift, nothing particularly special except that it was clean and tidy. The neckline, however, was a bit too low for her tastes, so she tugged it upward to conceal her skin in a more modest manner. It would have to do.

It was still early for the village to wake, so she did not expect to see anyone outside yet. The Norse were quite different in that way from the English. When she had lived in Martin’s Hundred with her parents, each morning she was startled awake to hear mother’s bible readings before they scurried off to church, and by mid-day meal it often felt that she had lived a full day. For the Norse, however, it was common to socialize long into the night, sometimes even so late they might greet the sunrise as they made it to bed. They were not lazy people, by any means, but they made sure to take pleasure in each day as if it might be the last.

She had not stepped but a few paces away from the Long house when she saw Chetan and Makedewa sitting across the yard. They lounged on a rough-hewn bench, their dark heads bent together in quiet conversation. Makedewa’s long hair fell over one brown shoulder, and she noticed the fresh shaven crescent shape on his scalp over his right ear. He looked larger than she recalled, his usually lean physique filled out more along his chest and arms, tapering down to the waist of his braies. She wondered if he had been waiting for her, and if he had dressed for her.

Rebecca smiled when Makedewa looked up. He cocked an eyebrow upward, then said something brusque to his brother in their native tongue. Whatever Makedewa said made Chetan look her way and smile, and then Chetan thumped him in the shoulder with a closed fist.

“Go, then,” Chetan muttered, a wry smile gracing his face.

Makedewa shoved his brother as he left the bench.

“Good morning, my lady,” Makedewa said as he approached. She nodded, suddenly feeling quite exposed in the morning sun as they stood together in the courtyard. There were more people stirring, and she noticed copper-haired Cormaic walking toward the Northern Hall. Makedewa followed her gaze.

“Did ye sleep well, Makedewa?” she murmured.

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I slept little.”

When Cormaic spotted them and appeared as if he might approach, Makedewa took her hand.

“Come with me,” he said simply, and she did. She would have gone anywhere with him for only his asking. He took them through the wooded trail away from the village, tracing the path that led to the ridge. She had only been there accompanied by the Norse for their ceremonies, as women were generally not permitted to roam alone so far away. She clutched her skirts in one hand as she gripped his hand with the other, and by the time they reached the steep peak she was panting to regain her breath.

He let go of her hand as she steadied herself. Taking off a satchel he had looped across his chest, he knelt down and rifled through the contents. She sank down to the soft moss beside him and watched, bemused, as he laid out a morning meal for them.

“Did you cook for me?” she asked. He frowned.

“No. I took this from the Northern Hall. Eat. You must be hungry,” he replied. She took the piece of bread he shoved in her hand and nibbled at it to hide her amusement. Why was he suddenly behaving so fierce? After the conversation on the previous evening, she thought surely they would pick up where they left things months before.

“Thank ye,” she said softly. He sat back away from her, resting his arm on one bent knee as he watched her eat. “Have yer travels truly ended, Makedewa? Or will ye leave again?”

He remained silent for a moment, and she saw his throat contract as he ate his food. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, his dark eyes latched onto hers.

“I mean to stay. As soon as this business with Benjamin is finished, I will not leave again.”

“What happened?” she asked.

“You need not hear it. It matters not to us,” he replied. She was surprised at the sting his words caused, and although she knew he meant no insult, it still hurt. Did he not yet see her as one he could confide in? Had she been wrong about his intent to make her his wife? If he could not answer such a simple question, it seemed impossible he was ready for much more.

“You’ve stayed away a long time. I would like to know what keeps ye from yer family,” she said softly.

She heard him sigh.

“Benjamin stays in town now with strangers. I returned to warn Winn of what his brother has done,” he said evenly.

“I am sorry to hear that.”

“I did not bring you here to speak of Benjamin,” Makedewa answered, direct with his intention. “I ask if there is still room in your heart for this weary traveler.”

She swallowed back her wounded pride and rose to her feet, approaching the peak of the hill. Foam-capped waves crashed below, and she could see the beach where they had once sent Marcus to his final rest. The view swept the breath from her chest, the scent of the salty surf thick in the air as she closed her eyes. Even the scream of the seagulls was beautiful, echoing against the rocks, and as she turned her head and inhaled she could feel it in the breeze on her cheeks. Yes, he had left her for several months, but his intention had been one of honor as he took her failure on himself with claims that he needed more time. She had struggled with his decision then but had grown to see he was right. Their marriage would have suffered if they had married in haste, before she had excised the demons of her past.

“So ye found what ye searched for?” she asked, the sting of bitterness tangy on her tongue.

“If I returned to a maiden who is strong and sure on her own feet, then, yes, I have found what I searched for.”

His arms slipped around her waist, and she felt his breath warm against her ear.

“Come away from there, chulentet,” he murmured.

“If I am your little bird, then why must I fear? Perhaps I can fly,” she whispered. His embrace tightened.

“When you fly, I will join you. I have waited a long time for your wings to grow strong.”

She let him pull her down next to him on the damp earth, still close enough to the edge that she could smell the salt, but far enough away to ease his worry.

“I’m sorry,” she replied. She knew he had waited patiently for her, and it pained her to know it caused him distress. Her apology meant many things, the deepest of which she hated to acknowledge. The memory of their last argument still cut deep, when he had suggested she could never love him because, like the man who had attacked her, Makedewa was an Indian.

“I am not sorry. Every day happens for a reason. Every birth, every death. It is all part of the Great Creator’s vision, and it is all meant to be,” he said quietly. “The good things,” he said, kissing her ear, “As well as the bad.”

At that she lowered her head, the worst of what had happened in her life surfacing as an ache. It was buried, but still there, and he knew it.

“Do you know I waited many years for the day of the Great Assault…the day the English call the Massacre? My uncle was the one who gathered our tribes and planned it, but I looked forward to it as much as any loyal Powhatan brave. I wanted to drive the English away. I wanted them all dead,” he said.

“Please, you do not have to tell me–” she said. He shook his head.

“The day my uncle ordered us to attack your town did not go as planned. Winn asked for my help to save those he loved, and I helped him, but there was one Englishman I meant to kill there above all others. His name was Nathanial Webb.”

Leaning into his embrace, she closed her eyes.

“I don’t care who ye killed. I would be dead now, if not for ye,” she said. “You saved me.”

“I saved myself.”

He rested his chin against her shoulder, pulling her snug into his lap.

“Makedewa–”

“I saved you that day, because when I saw the fear in your eyes, I could see straight through to your heart. Even before Maggie told us, I knew what had happened to you. I could see it here,” he whispered. He placed his hand over her heart, and gently placed a kiss on her forehead.

A sliver of fear washed through her at the luminous darkness in his eyes. She knew the time for her to speak was over, and now he meant to share the wounds that haunted his soul. She prayed she had the strength to face it with him, no matter how many of her kind he confessed to killing, or how much he hated her English blood. If he could just speak it, they could mend it, whatever it was in his past that had kept him away for so many long months.

“When I was a boy, my uncle sent me to the English to attend the new school at Henricus. The English wished to teach us their words, to make us more like them. It was Old Chief Powhatan in those days, and he thought his nephews would serve him better if we learned the English ways.”

“So ye learned English there?” she asked. He nodded. He stared out over the cliff at the seagulls, his eyes vacant as he spoke.

“There were three of us boys. Too young to be warriors, and too old to be children any longer,” he continued. “Master Nathanial Webb was the teacher we were sent to. The wealthy settlers were glad to have the Paspahegh children to serve them. Perhaps some of the English meant to teach us, as they had agreed with Chief Powhatan to do, but Master Webb did not honor that promise.”

Makedewa straightened his back and pulled her tighter to his chest. She closed her mouth to keep from gasping out loud at the way he gripped her, his arms bands of steel keeping her close. Her breaths came shallow from sheer necessity as she listened to him speak.

“I was told by my Weroance to obey Master Webb, to respect him as I did my own kin. When he summoned me to the house one night, I obeyed.”

“Makedewa–”

“On the day of the Great Assault, when that man attacked you, did you fight him?” he suddenly asked. The urge to bolt overwhelmed her, and panic welled in her belly as he brought up the events of that horrible day. She twisted around in his arms and tried to rise, but he held her firm in his grasp as he commanded an answer.

“Tell me!” he insisted, his voice growing quiet. “Did you fight him? Did you?”

“Yes,” she whispered. Why was he doing this to her? Why must he know the details of her shame? She choked on her own salty tears, confused and doubting the love she thought he held for her. “Yes, I fought him! I did! I–I tried to get away. He was too strong. Why must ye ask it now? Why?”

“Because,” he said softly, his voice trailing off low and hoarse, “You were brave. You fought. You ran. I did not fight like you did. I did not fight… when it was done to me.”

She sat motionless and cold for a moment, afraid to breath, afraid to move, until finally she felt the warmth of his skin again. She leaned back against him and linked her fingers through his where his hands crossed over her chest, their frantic breaths easing together as they held each other.

“When I saw you that day, I could see it in you, what had been done to you. I abandoned my vow to kill Webb for his crime, and instead I killed that savage for you. So that you could have peace.”

As the implications of his confession settled between them, Makedewa gently lifted her hands in his and spread their arms wide. The ocean breeze felt cool on her skin, and his lips brushed the tears from her cheek.

“If you spread your wings, I will hold you. I will let no harm come to you, as long as I take breath. Your heart is mine to bear, from this day forth. Are you ready now, chulentet? Is your heart ready to belong to me?”

His fingers entwined in hers and she drew his arms back down around her shoulders, settling into her lap.

“I love thee. I know that as true,” she said softly, her heart like a leaden weight inside her chest at the thought of what he had suffered. “I’m so sorry. You let him live…for me?”

He kissed her, taking her face in both hands, delaying the answer to her question. Finally he drew back and pressed his lips into her hair.

“You needed me more than I needed my vengeance,” he whispered.

They sat silently bound together, rocking gently on the cliff top as they watched the morning sun fully rise. Words were sparse for what remained of the day, but when they held hands and walked back down the ridge, they both knew something had changed.

She knew his heart was meant for hers, and she trusted he would tend it well in his keeping.

Makedewa

MAKEDEWA AND CHETAN stood apart from the others. The Norse gathered on the banks of the sandy inlet shadowed by the steep ridge above, the place where they had sent Marcus to his eternal rest. Ahi Kekeleksu sprinted toward them, splashing through the frothy sea foam on the beach.

“Can I go with Iain, father?” the boy asked. Chetan cocked an eyebrow at his son in a questioning manner, then pointed at the raised platform the women were covering with flowers and gifts. The naming ceremony would involve the entire village. It was long overdue for Kwetii, but timely for the newborn son of Chief Winn.

“Do they need your help?”

“No. Aunt Maggie told me to go away, she thinks I made Kwetii cry,” Ahi Kekeleksu answered. Chetan cleared his throat and cast a sly grin at Makedewa.

“Did you make your cousin cry, son?” Chetan chided him. The boy’s cheek flushed, seeming with indignant anger more than chagrin, and Makedewa could not help smile at his nephew’s discomfort. Ahi Kekeleksu was nearing young manhood, and they could all see how patient he was with Kwetii following him around all the time. Lately, however, the other boys teased the youth for catering to his cousin, and the boy decided enough was enough. Although it made Kwetii sad, they all knew it was better for the boy to play with others his own age, and spend less time with the women.

“No. Well, I did not mean to. But she was crying when I left,” the boy admitted, poking at the sand with the toe of his boot. Chetan placed a hand on his shoulder and bent down to look his son in the eye.

“Kwetii will have a new name today, and she will forget why she cries. Go on, go with the other boys. I will speak to your aunt.”

Makedewa rolled his eyes and sighed. Yes, Maggie was his brother’s wife, and by honor of their blood that meant she was his sister as well. Yet it still aggravated him how she bent others to her will with little effort, even when some of her notions were far-fetched and downright dangerous. It was enough that Winn was a complete fool to her charm, but Chetan was another thing entirely.

“Your son did nothing,” Makedewa snapped as the boy ran off. “Why must you speak to Maggie of it? Kwetii is spoiled, like her mother,” he muttered.

Chetan watched the boy sprint down the beach, one long black braid bobbing down his back as he leapt through the surf.

“Unlike you, brother, I enjoy her company. It is good to sit and talk with her.”

“There are plenty of women to talk to. If you like white women, talk to Elli-dear. She is a woman who knows her place.”

“I like Maggie as a sister, nothing more. Do you forget I had a wife once, that I know what it is like to miss that? Maybe you were gone too long from us, brother. Maybe you left your sense in one of the English towns,” Chetan replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

The rising urge to fight suddenly waned, and Makedewa felt remorse over taunting his brother. He knew Chetan adored Maggie, and he was well aware that they spoke often as friends. Yet Maggie stood for something else to Makedewa, something foreign, something magical. Although he respected her role as Winn’s wife, he could not deny his deeper feelings. Perhaps it was that part of him that despised her still, so much that he could not truly love her as a sister. He did not know.

“If Rebecca accepts your pledge, you will be married tonight to an Englishwoman. Is your hate for them truly gone, or does the thought of bedding her cloud your eyes?”

Makedewa snapped. He grabbed Chetan by the shoulders and threw him backward, but Chetan met his assault in kind. Equally as strong and even more inflamed in his quiet way, Chetan broke Makedwa’s grasp with one thrust and shoved him back, nearly knocking him off his feet.

Makedewa stumbled but recovered, then swung around to confront his brother as he struggled to control his temper. What was wrong with Chetan? Why did his brother taunt him?

“Rebecca is nothing like Maggie,” Makedewa growled.

“Oh, no? When Rebecca questions you, will you punish her? When she refuses to obey your commands, what will you do? I think your woman is much like Fire Heart, you just do not see it yet.”

Makedewa glared at Chetan.

“Rebecca knows her place,” he muttered.

Chetan nodded. “Yes, she does. Rebecca was born to this time, as were you. Do you remember when you asked Winn why he did not punish Maggie? Do you remember how angry you were at him when he did not beat her? When he did not…kill her?”

Makedewa balked at that. Yes, he recalled those times well. So much had changed, even with the short amount of time that had passed. He felt shame knowing he had berated Winn for not killing Maggie on sight, especially when he knew what it meant now to love another so much. Before Rebecca, he had no notion of such powerful things. Now, his life took a new path, and he stumbled to find his own way among it.

“I regret my words. I see now why he did not harm her.”

“But do you see what a wife is to a man? Rebecca will disobey you. She will not always agree with what you want. That is not something only Maggie and Rebecca share; my Sapalente was that way as well,” Chetan said quietly. Makedewa watched as Chetan sat back against tall boulders in the sand, clasping his hands together into fists in his lap as he spoke of his dead wife. “My wife knew her place. Still, she challenged me. I would give anything to have those fights with her once more. I tell you this, brother,” Chetan said, glancing up to meet his gaze. “Tame your anger, let it out in other ways. Let your wife speak her mind, give her your ear, and you will be happier for it. I do not know much, but I know this is true.”

Makedewa swallowed against his hoarse throat. This was his brother giving him marriage advice, in the best way that he knew how.

“I will, brother,” Makedewa promised.

Chetan grinned. He reached out and shoved Makedewa, and he shoved his brother back. They saw the smoke rising from the sacrificial fire and made their way back toward the Norsemen. The ceremony would start soon.

“And forgive Winn’s wife, while you are taking my counsel. She cares for you too, you stubborn goat,” Chetan sniped. Makedewa grunted in reply and shoved his brother’s hand away.

He had enough to think over with his impending marriage. Learning to like Winn’s wife would wait for another day.

In early evening Makedewa joined the others on the beach for the naming ceremony of his niece and nephew. Kwetii was long overdue for a proper name; if they had remained with the Paspahegh, the girl might be on her third or fourth name. With the impudent manner the child behaved, Makedewa also knew she would have suffered many a tanned hide, yet in the Norse village her antics were regarded with only amusement. He had no doubt that someday Winn would regret allowing his daughter to grow up with the mind of a warrior.

Young Dagr was brought out by Finola. Makedewa could see Maggie tense up as the older Seer carried the babe toward them, but Winn’s headstrong wife remained seated despite her obvious discomfort. For a moment Makedewa wondered if Maggie had become a more complacent wife in the year he had been gone, but when he saw the way Winn’s hand on her thigh kept her glued firmly to her chair, he shook his head with a sigh. Some things never changed.

Finola placed the child on a thick fur at Winn’s feet. She poured water from a brass pitcher into her cupped hand, and then let it drip slowly over the child’s head, an action which caused the child to let out a hearty squeal. Maggie leaned forward at this Norse ritual, and Makedewa could see her teeth clenched down over her bottom lip until Finola picked the child up again. To Makedewa, the entire ceremony was bizarre, the ancient way they accepted their children into the family instead of turning them out to die. It seemed a foregone conclusion to him. There was no way anyone would harm Winn’s son, not while his brother or Maggie still breathed air.

Finola presented the boy child to Winn, who took the naked babe gently from her hands. The old Seer made the sign of the Hammer over the child’s head, and then bowed to the Chief.

Makedewa felt her at his side before she slipped her hand tentatively into his. He glanced down at Rebecca while trying to keep most of his attention on the ceremony, but she was too lovely to ignore. A smile graced her face and her eyes were round and soft as she looked up at him.

“Won’t ye come closer? I’m sure yer brother would want ye there,” she said. He shook his head.

“No. I can see fine from where I stand. And now you’re here, I have no reason to leave,” he murmured, squeezing her hand.

Kwetii stood watching between her parents. The child was dressed in a fine velvet gown, and Makedewa was sure it would be ruined as soon as the whelp had opportunity to get out of sight.

“It took three grown women to get that child dressed today,” Rebecca sighed with a giggle. “Kwetii is not eager to dress like a lady.”

“The girl is spoiled,” Makedewa snapped, the words rushing from his lips with little thought. He refused to look further at Rebecca, keeping his eyes firmly on the naming ritual, even though he could see Rebecca turn to stare up at him.

“Oh, is she? I think if we are so blessed to have children, I will spoil them the same,” she replied. He uttered a dismissive snort in response.

Finola sprinkled water on Kwetii’s head and the crowd burst into laughter as the child swatted the Seer away. At least Maggie had the good sense to grab the child and stop her, but it was Winn who finally calmed the hellion with a quick swat to her a bottom and a whisper in her ear. Kwetii commenced to enduring the blessing after that.

“I need only you. That is enough happiness for one life, I think,” he replied. He had seen women endure childbirth, and many times it had sent the mother to the afterlife. The thought of Rebecca enduring such pain on his account, and possibly dying for it was too much for him to consider. Until she had approached the subject, it had not occurred to him that she might want children.

“It is. But it would be a gift to have children of our own. One I could give to ye,” she said softly.

He shifted his stance as she laid her head on his shoulder.

“If it pleases you,” he muttered.

“It would,” she insisted.

A roar rose from the crowd as Winn lifted his infant son high above his head. Kwetii sat perched on her mother’s hip, a sour look scrunched over her heart-shaped face as the children were presented to the crowd.

“Dagr Drustan Neilsson, my son!” Winn shouted. “Kyra Alfrun Neilsson, my daughter! Welcome this blood of my blood!”

Amidst the raucous bellows and joyous outbursts, people began milling to the platform to give their offerings. Multiple swatches of fine cloth, baskets of fresh fruit, the bright white spotted hide of a snow leopard. Extravagant gifts, all for the honor of naming the children of the Chief. It seemed like a silly gesture to Makedewa.

“Do the English put such importance on naming their children?” he asked. She shook her head.

“Nay. A blessing when the child is born, but no gifts are given like this.” She tugged on his hand. “And for the Indians? Did ye have such a fuss for naming?”

“We would celebrate, but not like this. Children in my tribe are given many names, it is not such a grand thing as this.”

She was silent at that, and he could see that her demeanor turned thoughtful. With a quick glance at the others, Makedewa could see they were caught up in making offerings and no one was paying any attention in his direction. He slipped his hand up Rebecca’s back and drew her close, kissing her gently on the mouth before she could protest.

“What troubles you? Is it the children, or the Norse?” he asked. He loved the way her pale cheeks flushed rosy pink as she drew away.

“No, it’s not that. I–I just wonder where…how…we could be married. Our Gods…our beliefs….they are so different.”

He traced over her parted lips with his thumb. He could see the indecision in her, the remnants of the English life she left behind. Although she had never expressed desire to return to that life, he knew she still held pieces of it deep within as she read quietly to herself from her Bible. It was only natural she would harbor some apprehension as to how to meld their lives according to the Gods.

“They are not so different. Look at Winn and Maggie,” he said. Using them as an example was not his first choice, but it was all he could grasp when the need arose. “They come from different times, from different people. Yet they are happy together.” He brought her hand up and pressed her palm to his cheek. “We will marry here, in the Norse village, as the Norse marry. It means the same, no matter what place we join, or under what God. What matters is that you are mine, until our hearts beat no more. We can make that promise here with our family, and that is all that matters.”

She bent her head to his shoulder as she smiled, and he kissed the top of her head.

“I trust ye, in this and all things,” she said softly.

“Good. Then worry no more. Come, the others wait for us.”

Makedewa could see Chetan looking in their direction from where the others stood by the fire. Winn raised up a hand to wave them over. Makedewa took Rebecca’s hand and led her to his family.

They joined the others just as Finola took a narrow jeweled dagger in her hands. The old seer stood at Winn’s side, her eyes glazed with the white film that had never left her in the time since she had returned from the spirit world. Makedewa did not understand the Norse magic, and for the truth of it he only listened as much as he needed to get on amicably with the others. It was Makedewa’s loyalty to his blood brothers that kept him in the village, not any interest in the Norse ways, and soon he hoped he would be tied to a certain maiden by marriage.

Most of the villagers had made way back to the Northern Hall in preparation for a long night of celebration, yet a small group of those closest to Winn remained on the sand. Erich and Gwen remained, and to Makedewa’s annoyance, Cormaic did as well. Chetan and his son looked on with less interest, but the others clearly knew that something was about to happen. Makedewa could see it in their faces, the way Gwen held her breath as she watched Finola take the heel of Winn’s infant son in her hand.

Finola pierced it quickly with the knife. It was only a small thing, but the stream of newborn blood was profuse enough to cause Makedewa to gasp. What was she doing to Winn’s son? Rebecca seemed just as confused, gripping his hand so tightly his fingers began to feel numb.

Winn looked on calmly as Finola held the child’s dripping heel over a shallow basket. The basket contained several wilted plants that appeared dead. As Young Dagr’s blood hit the crumpled petals, a collective gasp emerged from all the onlookers.

The plant’s dry brown color turned a luscious green, and the stem straightened on its stalk. A shriveled bud swelled up bright pink, twisting as if waking from sleep, until it opened its petals to reveal a shiny new bloom.

“Oh, my,” Rebecca breathed. He felt her body give way and rushed to hold her up, unable to tear his eyes from the magic in front of them.

“So another blooded MacMhaolian. Thank Odin for this most wondrous gift. Let us be worthy of protecting this sacred life,” Finola announced.

Maggie appeared unsettled, but not surprised as she took her son in her arms. Gwen hugged them both and then applied a bandage to the squirming child’s heel. Throughout the ordeal, the boy had remained silent, uttering not even a squeal when his heel was pricked, yet once in his mother’s arms he immediately rooted to nurse. Maggie darted a glance around, let out a short sigh, and let the child latch on.

“Ye can let me loose,” Rebecca whispered. Makedewa looked down, shocked to see how tightly he was gripping her arms, and then immediately released her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Did ye know the child was like them?” she asked.

“No. I did not know there was a way to–to see if the boy held the blood. I do not know much of how the Norse magic works,” Makedewa answered.

He wondered if Benjamin’s blood would cause such magic when spilled, and suddenly the need to understand the ancient power Winn protected seemed essential.

“Chulentet,” he said. “Join the women in the Northern Hall. I will meet you there soon.”

“If ye ask it, of course,” she agreed. He was glad she did not question his intent, as he did not understand it himself as he left her and joined the men. Makedewa reached Winn’s side as the group moved away toward the hall, and he touched his brother’s elbow to hold him back. Chetan noticed the subtle signal as well and slowed down with them, allowing the others to pass. Erich nodded as he gave his Chief a respectful acknowledgement.

“Finola says my son is the first blooded male since Maggie’s grandfather, Malcolm. She says he has the spirit of Great Chiefs in his heart,” Winn said.

Makedewa and Chetan remained silent as Winn glanced down. Winn studied his open palms for a moment, opening and closing them several times. He shook his head slowly, as if in some internal dialogue.

“What of Erich? He is the son of Malcolm, does he not have the power as well?” Chetan asked.

“Erich has some power, yet he is different. Finola said there is a touch of the Blooded Ones in all the Norse here, but only the Gods choose which MacMhaolians carry the most sacred power. And the Gods choose both my children.”

For once, Makedewa knew nothing to say to his brother. Winn spoke of his children with fierce pride, yet beneath that pledge was an undercurrent of unease unspoken.

“Do you bear the blood, brother?” Makedewa asked. Chetan glared at him, clearly annoyed that Makedewa posed such a question to Winn, but for this Makedewa refused to be swayed: he needed to know as much about the magic as Winn did, if there was any hope he could keep the ones he loved safe.

It unsettled him, to admit he was so vulnerable, yet he could no longer deny it. His alliance with Winn and the Norse placed him square in the path of the ancient magic. Makedewa suddenly had much more to lose than his own blackened soul.

“No. Only the Chief Protector’s blood. Did you see what my son made happen, with only a few drops of his blood?” Winn said. “The blood of a Chief Protector can be given to take his clan through time, but it would take my life. Yes, in my blood lies some magic, but it is nothing to what the Blooded MacMhaolian possess. It is the newborns that hold the healing power. When he passes his first year, his blood will no longer bring life to the dead, but he will still have power to time travel. If our clan must go, it would not take his life…as it would mine. So the Pale Witch tells me.”

“So your son can heal the dead?” Makedewa asked, a dread rising deep inside. It roiled his blood, stirred his greatest fears. Should any one person wield such power?

“Only in his first year. The power recedes as the child ages, and he is left with the power of time travel. It is all tied together, the bending of time and the giving of life. From what Finola and Gwen tell me, I believe the healing power remains…but it would take all of my son’s blood as an adult to heal the dead.”

“We should take them all away. We should go to Maggie’s future–she says it is safe there,” Makedewa said, his voice short despite his attempt to temper the rise of panic within. “I listen to what your wife says, brother. I know that this is the end for our people. If we cannot change the future, then let us join it.” Chetan let out a sigh, and Winn put his hand on Makedewa’s shoulder.

“We cannot. We can keep them safe here, in this time,” Winn replied. Makedewa shoved his brother’s hand away.

“Yes, you have all the Norse to keep your woman and your children safe. No harm will befall them. But what of who I mean to keep safe? What of those here, who are not so worthy?” Makedewa snapped. “Is it only the blood of your blood that matters?”

Makedewa knew he pushed his brother too far. He could see Winn’s neck tighten and his eyes slant down as his face turned into a slate mask.

“Every person in this village matters to me,” Winn said, his words spoken slow and even. Yet Makedewa could not subdue his doubt, and his ire flowed as a river without restraint.

“When the time comes–and it will, soon–what will you do? Benjamin has betrayed us, he has joined with another Blooded One. When they come for your wife and children, will you take them away to the future, as your father before you did? Will you leave the rest of us here, with no protection?”

“You dare question my honor?” Winn replied, the menace sharp in his tone.

Makedewa saw his brother’s fist flex and prepared himself for the blow. He expected an extreme response, and was disappointed when it did not come. Winn clearly wanted to thrash him, but held back. Instead, Winn’s shoulders slumped a bit and he stepped back away a few paces.

“Keptchat!” Chetan cursed as he stalked away in a different direction.

It was a rare thing for the brothers to display raw anger at each other, and as Makedewa raked his fingers through his hair he let out a frustrated groan.

“I have seen what you have not, Chief,” Makedewa finally said, his voice strained through his dry throat. “They have many guns, more than I could count. They have strength of numbers, and the support of the King’s Men. The leader has wealth like that of the Governor. And now,” he added, “They have Benjamin.”

Makedewa faced his brother now, unwilling to say the words he knew must be said. Somehow, he must make his brother understand the danger, that this fight had gone beyond a simple blood feud between two ancient families.

“They want your Time Walkers, these blooded MacMhaolian, the blood of your blood. They have Benjamin, but they will not rest at that. They will bring the English down upon us, and unless you are ready to fight, we are all at risk. If you plan to leave like your father once did, then tell me now. Tell me now, so I know what we will face. I will stand by you, brother…but I must know how we will fight.”

Makedewa felt Winn’s fist grasp his tunic, his brother’s fingers clenched in the fabric of the cloth.

“When you question my honor, brother,” Winn said, his voice low, “look me in the eye. You will see me when you lay your claim at my feet.”

Slanted in controlled rage, the grief shone clear though Winn’s blue eyes when Makedewa met his brother’s searing gaze. Chetan placed a hand on each of their shoulders, but Makedewa was numb to the touch as he stared at his oldest brother. Winn’s grip slowly loosened, and Makedewa let out the breath he held tight in his chest.

“The magic of time travel is not meant to be used as a weapon. I made a vow to protect it, and to protect those who bear the sacred blood. And I make a vow to you now, my brothers, that I will protect these people here–all of them–with my life. If it is needed of me, I will give it. Is that not enough for you? Is my word no longer enough?”

They all knew what Winn’s proclamation meant. If it was needed, he would give his life by taking them all to another time. There was no more that needed to be said.

Makedewa felt Chetan beside them again, his presence not splitting them apart, but only a reminder of what they were to each other. Makedewa placed his hand over Winn’s wrist, his brother’s fist still clenched with a knot of Makedewa’s tunic.

Winn’s ragged breath was a roar amongst the sounds of the surf, the Chief’s frustration louder than the words spoken between them.

“It is. Your word is enough,” Makedewa finally answered. He noticed Chetan’s shoulders relax, and the way Winn’s stagnant glare softened. Not one of them acknowledged the acquiescence; it was a given that they would resolve their differences.

“Tonight we will feast. My children have new names, and if the Gods are willing, my brother will have a wife. We have much to celebrate. The others wait for us.”

Makedewa nodded, wordless. They walked back to the Northern Hall, three astride in a line, all equals in the journey for the time being. Makedewa knew it was not the last they would speak of it, but for now he would obey his brother’s command.

There was a maid waiting for him, and he would not leave her alone any longer.

Rebecca

“THEY’RE HIDING SOMETHING,” Maggie insisted.

Rebecca rolled her eyes at her friend. Even though Rebecca knew Maggie had grown up in a future time, it still made her nervous when the other woman would question the matters of men. Rebecca had rejoined her friend after Makedewa bid her to leave, and she had found Maggie sitting with a strained look on her face. With the newborn babe feeding at her breast, Maggie rocked back and forth with every outward appearance of quiet acceptance, but Rebecca could hear her whispered complaints as they watched the men return to the Northern Hall.

“I’m sure it’s nothing, Maggie,” Rebecca answered.

“What did Makedewa say? And why didn’t Benjamin return with him?” Maggie asked.

Rebecca shrugged.

“He said naught. I think ye should just talk to yer husband. Ye always have his ear.”

“I did ask him,” Maggie mumbled. “He just said a few of the men need to go into Elizabeth City soon. He said not to worry.”

“Then listen to him,” Rebecca suggested with a smile. Maggie muttered something Rebecca could not quite decipher.

“You know I worry,” Maggie said quietly, her voice wavering despite her bluster. Rebecca patted her friend’s hand. She knew Maggie had a soft heart underneath the tough façade she wore, and that the Chief’s wife was especially emotional after giving birth only a few weeks before.

As Rebecca soothed her friend, she looked down at the baby nursing happily. The boy had one chubby hand pressed against her skin, looking up with round blue eyes at his mother. With an ache squeezing her chest, Rebecca wondered if she would ever have such joy in her life. She had renewed hope now that since Makedewa had returned, things would be different.

She surely felt like a different woman. It had been difficult to watch him leave, but even then she knew he was doing what was best for them both. He took her fear and uncertainty upon his own shoulders, cast it upon himself, and gave her space to find herself. She had not been ready to be a wife to him, nor any other, and to pretend that it did not matter would have made life miserable for them both. Seeing him again made emotions surge within, the pleasant twinge of desire and need filling her to bursting.

Yes, she was ready to be a wife to him. If he would ask her, of course. Although they had discussed the future and spoke of marriage as if it was part of their shared life, he had not actually asked her to marry him.

“How is Young Dagr, cousin?”

Rebecca looked up as Cormaic approached. He smiled broadly when she met his gaze.

“He’s perfect,” Maggie answered, kissing her infant son’s dark hair. “What mischief are you up to?” she added. Cormaic grinned wider and held his hand out to Rebecca.

“None, my lady. Just begging one last dance is all. May I?” he said. Rebecca put her hand into his without hesitation. He had become a friend and confidant over the last few months, always full of laughter and life when she needed it most. She was curious of what he meant, and she knew he would tell her the truth.

Her skirts swirled as he twirled her in a circle, eliciting her laughter as he pulled her back in close to his chest. Cormaic suddenly looked serious, holding her a bit more snugly than they usually danced. She probably would not have noticed if she were not acutely aware of Makedewa watching from across the room. When she dared a glance at him around Cormaic’s shoulder, she did not see the fierceness she expected, but Makedewa’s jaw was tighter and he no longer sipped from his tankard as he watched them.

She raised her chin and looked up at Cormaic. No, she would not feel bad about dancing. She enjoyed dancing, and Makedewa hated it, so he could hardly fault her for a few turns on the floor. After all, they had both changed in the time they spent apart.

“Are ye happy, my lady?” Cormaic murmured. His lips were unusually close to her ear, his breath causing a shiver to skitter across her skin. She drew back but could not go very far due to his hand on her waist.

“Of course I am. Why do ye ask?” she replied.

“Ye must know I worry over ye,” he said. “I worry that Indian will make ye cry again, now that he’s back. You know ye can refuse his courting.”

“I thank ye for yer kindness, but I will abide. I’m happy to see him,” she insisted. It was not unusual for Cormaic to refer to Makedewa with a touch of bitterness in his voice.

“I will tear out his spine if he hurts ye again,” Cormaic whispered fiercely. Rebecca could not help smiling at his gallant gesture, causing his face to redden.

“It willna be necessary, my friend. But thank ye,” she laughed. He growled something uncharacteristically roguish in Norse as he twirled her again and she continued to giggle.

“May I?”

They stopped abruptly at the sound of Makedewa’s voice. Rebecca glanced around the floor in a panic. Makedewa did not dance, he had made that abundantly clear on various occasions. Cormaic seemed just as shocked as she was.

“If my lady is willing, of course,” Cormaic said evenly. She saw the eyes of the two men locked for a long moment. Jovial, fair-haired Cormaic stood straight upright facing the dark haired, black-eyed brave, and she suddenly felt like the air stood still around them.

“That would be lovely,” she answered. She put her hand into Makedewa’s outstretched palm, and after giving Cormaic a quick smile she let Makedewa move her away. His warrior jaw was still tight, his eyes cautious, but there was none of the rage she expected. And to her utmost surprise, he guided her across the dance floor as if he enjoyed it as much as she did.

“Ye learned to dance while ye traveled?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity. His lips loosened into a grin as he nodded, matching her steps with grace and skill.

“An English lady took pity on me, and showed me a few steps,” he murmured close to her ear. An unwelcome thought surfaced of Makedewa dancing with another woman when he had never danced with her, and she quickly averted her eyes to stare at his chest.

“So ye spent yer leisure time with an English lady,” she said, unable to stop the jealous barrage as it spewed from her mouth.

“Only a few nights,” he replied. She felt his fingers under her chin, urging her to look up at him. His dark eyes gleamed with a teasing light as he smiled. “She was as old as Finola, but quite light on her feet. Her husband could no longer dance, and he thought it kind that I made his wife happy.”

“Not too happy, I hope?” she sniped, feeling like a harpy. She had no idea why it riled her so much. After all, she had been dancing with Cormaic as well.

“Why, my lady, does that trouble you?” he teased. She felt his lips brush her ear as her face filled with color. She had been calm and confident while he was gone, and suddenly she felt like a quivering idiot in his presence. Makedewa making jokes? How on earth was that happening?

“Of course not,” she stammered. “No more than it troubled you when I danced with Cormaic.”

She felt his arm tighten on her waist as he pulled her against his chest.

“It was always you I saw in my arms as I learned to dance.”

She looked up at him, her breath coming in short bursts as he captured her gaze. The music had stopped and the murmur of voices commenced around them, but they stood there as if alone in the hall. Something feral hid beneath his gaze, controlled yet simmering, a composure she had never seen in his eyes before.

“That pleases me to hear,” she whispered. He did not smile, his face composed and serious.

“I think I will claim all your dances from now on,” he replied.

“Then you shall have them,” she smiled. He lowered his lips to her ear and she felt the warmth of his breath against her skin.

“I must leave soon on a task for my brother,” he said quietly. “I do not know when we will return. I asked you once to be my wife, chulentet. Tonight, will you say yes?” he asked. “If you would have me kneel, you only need to ask. If you would have me beg, then demand it so. Whatever you ask of me, I will do. I cannot leave without this promise between us.”

He bent his knee and lowered his head, but she pulled him up by grasping his tunic before anyone saw them. She shook her head as tears threatened to fall.

“No, please, don’t kneel!” she insisted. Her fists stayed clenched at his chest as she stared into his eyes, smiling through her tears. “I will. I will be yer wife. I want nothing more,” she breathed, letting out a sigh as he kissed her and silenced her remaining words.

A roar exploded from onlookers and others began clapping, with men slapping Makedewa on his back as they passed. His cheeks reddened as he grinned but he kept his focus on her.

“Erich will marry us tonight. With our family, here in the village,” Makedewa said.

“Tonight?” she squeaked. “Were ye so sure I would accept yer bid?”

“Yes,” he replied. His face returned to his normal disposition of controlled simmer, but she felt his hands tighten on her arms. “I had no doubt. Now, go. Go with Maggie and Gwen. They are waiting to help you get ready. I will meet you soon.”

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, and then handed it to Maggie, who had come to stand beside her. Rebecca watched as Makedewa joined his brothers.

“Not yet, Indian.”

The hall fell silent at Cormaic’s voice. He stood in the glimmer of moonlight from the doorway, his body outlined in a silver glow. Draped in the furs of the esteemed MacMhaolian, his shoulders flexed as he raised his sword up and pointed it at Makedewa. Rebecca was shocked to see Winn and Chetan fall back from Makedewa’s side as Cormaic began to shed his ceremonial garb.

The hulking Norseman unsheathed the bryntroll from the harness on his back and tossed his fur mantle aside. Cormaic shook his copper-topped head, taunting Makedewa with a few brisk waves of his outstretched hands. Men quickly gathered and moved the great long table aside. The crowd pulled back to give them a wide berth as Makedewa slowly approached.

“If you wish to take her to wife, you’ll go through me to do it,” Cormaic announced. Makedewa pulled his tunic over his head and tossed it toward Winn. Rebecca could not help but notice that Erich had come to stand by Winn, and the two men had their heads bent together in quiet conversation as they watched the spectacle.

“Gladly,” Makedewa replied. He bent at the waist into a crouch and the two men began to slowly circle each other.

Maggie squeezed her hand.

“What is going on?” Rebecca asked, unable to keep her eyes off the circling warriors. Maggie uttered a giggle, a gesture that did not serve to endear her at that moment.

“Oh, Cormaic challenged him. If Makedewa loses, he can’t marry you,” Maggie replied flippantly. Rebecca turned toward her friend, her voice rising to a squeal.

“But Cormaic doesn’t want me!” she insisted.

“He would have married you in a second, if you gave him half a chance,” Maggie snorted, her eyebrow raised as she tilted her head toward Rebecca. “But no, this isn’t about that. It’s about family. You’re my family, and you should have a man stand up for you. Cormaic missed the chance to fight Winn for me, so he decided to champion your honor for this match. Don’t the English fight for their women?”

“Fight? No! I mean, well, my father would have spoken with him, but nay! No fighting! This–this is barbaric! And unnecessary!” Rebecca hissed. She meant it with every breath of her being. She saw no reason why anyone should fight over her. After all, she was not truly family, as much as Maggie proclaimed it. She was an orphaned English lass with no blood kin to speak for her, a fact she had accepted the day she rode away with Makedewa from the ruins of her home.

“Maybe it is. But that is your warrior out there, fighting for you. He shows that he would stand up to the most fearsome Norseman in this village–for you. Straighten up, be proud, and watch them fight,” Maggie replied. Maggie wrapped her arm through Rebecca’s and held her tight. They stood at the edge of the crowd, and Rebecca could feel the stares of the others upon her.

Maggie was right, for once. This was a Norse ritual, one they had chosen to include her in. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps she and Makedewa were not outsiders. As she watched her man fight and felt the warm hands of passersby pat her shoulders, she softened to the thought of true belonging. No, she was not Norse by blood, and neither was Makedewa. Yet blood seemed to mean very little as they stood among those who would shelter them.

Gentle Cormaic, the trustworthy friend who had stood by her side during the long months of Makedewa’s absence. She vaguely recalled Cormaic once pecking her cheek after a night of dancing, but it seemed awkward and strained and she thought he meant it only in jest. Whatever conclusion he had taken from that attempt, it had not dissuaded his friendship, and certainly not dimmed his distaste whenever she spoke of Makedewa. Cormaic was an honorable man. Somehow she had earned both his devotion and loyalty, something she had never felt in all the years of her life in the English community.

She winced at the thud of bodies hitting the ground. The crowd let out a groan as the men wrestled in the dirt. She glanced to Maggie, swallowing hard as the fists continued to fly.

“Well, how long will they carry on like this?” Rebecca whispered. Maggie shrugged and adjusted the babe in her arms.

“Not too long. They both had plenty of mead, they can’t possibly keep it up. Oh, look! I think you’ll have a husband yet!” Maggie laughed. Rebecca turned her attention back to the grappling men.

Makedewa did not look to be winning from where she stood, his body pinned beneath Cormaic’s with the arms of the Norseman clenched firmly around his neck. Not yet undone, however, Makedewa suddenly twisted in the grip, swinging his hips around so that his knee fell squarely across Cormaic’s throat. Makedewa held the larger man down with his knee and his fist, both of them panting with exhaustion. Makedewa’s lip was swollen and his dark skin scattered with bruises, but Cormaic fared no better. The Norseman would wear a blackened eye and a gashed brow for his troubles.

The murmurs of the crowd quieted to a whisper, and every member of the village could hear Makedewa’s clear words.

“I will marry her. I will honor her. She. Belongs. To. Me,” Makedewa announced.

“Égóska til hamingju þú,” Cormaic wheezed through his narrowed airway. Makedewa drew back to allow him to breathe, and a grin spread across the Norseman’s bloodied face. “Then I congratulate you,” he called out.

The men exploded into a barrage of shouts as Makedewa extended his hand and helped Cormaic to his feet. Winn greeted the two men with a solemn grin on his own face, then raised Makedewa’s hand for the crowd to inspect. Onlookers broke into a gleeful celebration, and a group of women surrounded the defeated Cormaic to console him as Makedewa was escorted from the hall by the Chief.

She knew her mouth still lay agape when Makedewa met her eyes across the room. His lips was bloodied, and his jaw looked to be swelling, but he grinned back at her like a champion and raised his chin to her. Both she and Maggie giggled when Chetan slapped Makedewa playfully in the ear as the men dragged him away.

“They’ll ready him for the wedding. And you? It’s time we did something to liven you up,” Maggie laughed.

“I think I’ve had enough fer one night, thank ye,” she muttered.

Gwen gave Rebecca a pat on the back.

“Oh, no, lass, yer night is just beginning. If ye think ye’ll slumber tonight, then perhaps we should give ye some advice. Nothing makes a man more randy than fightin’, that’s fer sure!” Gwen laughed.

“Gwen!” Rebecca and Maggie both shouted simultaneously.

“Well, ach now, no need to git so uppity. That’s the truth, speak it or not,” Gwen retorted, her cheeks flushing a bit with the jest. Rebecca felt the sting of wetness threaten and hurriedly brushed the tears from her eyes.

Maggie noticed her falter and put her arms around her. “What? What is it?” Maggie demanded.

Rebecca shook her head.

“This feels like a dream,” she explained.

Gwen snorted. “Well, dream on with ye, but git yer arse moving. We need to get ye ready fer yer wedding, and the men be already waiting fer us. Hurry now, it’s past my sleeping time,” Gwen grumbled.

They all laughed as they left the Northern Hall to prepare for her wedding.

They exchanged vows beneath an ancient Cyprus tree, the shadow of Spanish moss creating a magical enclave around them as it swayed gently in the nighttime breeze. In the glimmer of light from the full moon she could see his face as they said the words, and it was then she felt she could see through him to the depths of his soul. It was a simple ceremony, witnessed only by the few involved, and before she could collect her racing thoughts, it was over and he carried her to a waiting Long house.

It was a tiny house close to the clearing, one of the older homes that had been unoccupied for some time. A fire burned in the hearth, and fresh flowers sat in bunches scattered around the room. There were few pieces of furniture inside, only a table with two chairs, a large chest, and of course, a wide bedding platform piled with thick furs.

As he lowered her down and her feet touched the floor, he looked anxiously at her.

“Does it please you?” he asked.

“It’s beautiful. Even if only for one night,” she replied.

“It belongs to us now, a gift from the Chief. I know we have only a few things we need, but I will fix that soon. I –”

She cut off his words by kissing him full on the mouth, sliding her hands up around his neck to pull him down to her.

“I love it. I need nothing else, except ye,” she said quietly. She could hear her own heart beating loudly in her ears, but she would not let her old fears ruin her wedding night. She would show her husband she would be a good wife to him, in every way he needed.

“Look here, into my eyes. See how much I love you. I will always honor you,” he murmured, gently pulling her close. “And I will always serve you.”

She smiled. “Oh, you will?”

“Yes,” he growled, with the hint of a smirk on his lips. “Because you are mine. For always.”

Later Makedewa cupped her face in his hands and looked into her eyes as they held each other, covering her cheeks in gentle kisses. Spent and breathless they clung to each other, and he crushed her to his chest as if he might never let her go.

When his breathing had slowed and she thought him asleep, she leaned over his torso with intent to see him. He fascinated her. Every inch of his russet skin, taut over the wiry muscles of his arms and chest. There was a long scar on his flesh, marking him below the right shoulder, as if something had been torn from his skin and left a ragged flap to heal in its place. When she traced her fingers over the site he covered her hand with his.

“It does not trouble me,” he said softly. She placed her cheek to his chest and snuggled down beside him.

“How did it happen?”

“It was a long time ago,” he replied.

“Please tell me,” she whispered.

He sighed. “My uncle wounded me. He was angered at me, and in his anger we fought.”

“But why?” she persisted. She could not see how he would ever betray his kin enough to cause such a fight, especially one that had ended so brutally with Makedewa wearing a deep scar.

He raised one eyebrow at her, then settled back into the furs.

“When he returned home from the hunt, he found his wife had put out his moccasins. He was very angry, and since he could not give his anger to her, he gave it to me.”

He closed his eyes then as if the story were finished, despite her resultant frown. She leaned over his face, letting her hair brush his bared skin. Reaching up to cup her chin, he smiled at her.

“I still don’t understand,” she said.

“A woman can cast out her husband if she chooses. She need only put his moccasins outside her yehakin. Then they are no longer married.”

“Oh. Like a divorce?” she exclaimed. It was unfathomable that Indian women could so easily rid themselves of a husband. It was something unheard of in her English life.

“Humph. Yes, like a divorce.”

Suddenly the interested waned and she was faced with another more pressing question. What on earth did any of that have to do with Makedewa?

“But why was your uncle angry at you?”

Makedewa closed his eyes long enough she thought he was pretending to sleep. She slapped her palm flat against his chest.

“Nahkeni!” he muttered, catching her hand. “Stop it, woman! It was not my fault!” he laughed. “I could not help it. She led me into manhood, and she decided she liked me better. I did not tell her to cast my uncle out.”

She felt her cheeks flame hotly as he chuckled, his amusement stoked by her response. Unwanted images of her husband with another woman surfaced, and she quickly shot upward and crossed her arms over her chest. It was not anything she ever wanted to picture again.

“Nouwami,” he said softly as he rose up beside her. She felt his arms encircle her waist, and his chin rested on her shoulder as he clutched her to his warm chest. “I love you, little bird. That life is over. This life is ours. For all my days, this is where I will stay,” he said, clasping one hand tighter as he kissed her neck below her ear. She shivered and smiled despite her annoyance.

“Yer moccasins willna be going anywhere,” she whispered back. A half-grin twisted her mouth as he pulled her around in his arms to kiss her fully. He grunted something harsh in teasing Paspahegh and she laughed.

She knew him better than that. Under his facade was a gentle heart, one she was sure would belong to her forever.

Benjamin

HE WAS AWAKE when the latch rattled and the heavy plank door creaked open. Benjamin had slept very little overnight in an upright position, braced against the wall in the corner of the narrow feather-stuffed mattress, but he had gleaned a bit of information from the surroundings of his guest room. Whoever Agnarr was, he was at least a very wealthy man compared to most Englishmen. Benjamin suspected it was uncommon for most criminals to keep prisoners in a finely furnished room, and apparently the man did not see him as much of a threat. With the tall, finely-carved mahogany wardrobe against the wall, and the heavy silver candle sticks sitting on the mantle, Benjamin could easily fashion a weapon. It was clear, however, that Agnarr carried no such fear of his captive, and for that, Benjamin was beyond puzzled.

As he considered his predicament, the only person who could make the ringing in his head worse walked into the room. Jora left the door wide open behind her as if in invitation, her face a careful mask of demure propriety as she surveyed him.

“Agnarr will see ye in the yard. Here,” she said, tossing a pile of clothes at him. “See yerself dressed fer work. They need help with the new smoke house, and ye need to earn yer keep.”

He caught the bundle and considered her bold behavior. What was the chit up to now?

“You must have the wrong prisoner, lass, if ye think I plan to help ye do anything,” he answered, meeting her steady gaze. Her lips crowned into a wry smile.

“I don’t know what game ye play, son of Dagr, but it will not save ye. Unless ye wish me to put my hands on your skin again and find the rest of your secrets, I would advise ye to do what Agnarr asks. He’s being quite a gentleman, for himself, I’d say,” she replied sweetly.

Her threat was not one of bodily harm, but it had the same result. No, he did not want to risk the Seer gleaning any more from his head. So far it appeared he had protected his vow, and by all that he knew to be right and true he would continue to do so.

Benjamin shook his head with a low grating curse and proceeded to pull his tunic over his head. He threw it onto the cot and reached for the buckle of his braies, which he had to admit needed a good washing. As fingers plucked the button, he heard her sharp intake of breath, and he cocked one eyebrow curiously at her.

“Well?” he said. “Are ye gonna just stand there, or give me a bit of peace?”

He was surprised to see her skin glowing bright pink from the crown of her breasts to the tips of her ears, and when she uttered a muffled indignant shriek and slammed the door he could not help but grin. So there was something that startled her, and at least he was in control of that. Odd behavior for a kept woman, but he might use her unease to his benefit.

The clothes were of good quality, and it occurred to him that Agnarr must have more in mind for him than imprisonment or torture. Well, self-preservation had not been high on his list of late, and the only sensible thing Benjamin could think to do was to find out who exactly Agnarr was and what danger he posed to those Benjamin had sworn to protect.

As he shrugged a woven vest over the linen shirt, he recalled the day he had saved his brother from an English ambush. Benjamin could still feel the heat of the guards’ skin under his fist and the sticky blood that surged onto his hands as he cut his throat. The unlucky sot was the not first man Benjamin had ever killed, but the taking of a life had still left the sting of desolation heavy in his chest.

Later that evening after he had escaped with Winn, they finally had words. Even Winn doubted Benjamin was man enough to take a life, and still that memory rattled him.

Winn had been hung repeatedly by the English, and his throat was a matted mesh of blood and torn flesh. His dark Indian skin was marked with knife wounds meant to torture, not kill, and Benjamin was sure at least a few of his ribs were broken by the way he spit up frothy blood when he coughed. Yet his warrior brother still stood there, incredulous, questioning if Benjamin might yet be capable of doing what needed to be done.

“We will be followed. Are you ready to fight?” Winn asked, tilting his head as he looked at the man who was his brother. Benjamin let out an insulted sigh.

“Ask yourself such. I’m the one that saved yer bloody arse, didn’t I? I can kill a man, the same as ye.”

“So you’ve learned to kill?” Winn answered.

“I’ve changed a bit,” Benjamin said. “As have ye, brother.”

Yes, Benjamin thought. He had changed a bit. Losing everything his heart desired, yet knowing he was bound to a greater purpose by right of his very birth? Well, those things had a way of changing a man.

Benjamin finished dressing and walked out to the yard, wary of both Jora and Agnarr’s intentions, but eager to discover some answers. He needed to find out exactly who Agnarr was, and if the man and any of his cohorts were a danger to Winn’s family. It was all he had left to focus on, and he would not fail at the task.

Agnarr stood watching the men work on a new smokehouse. The structure was nearly complete, with the roof in process of being slat shingled and only the doors remaining unhinged. The man sipped from a pewter mug, his slanted eyes focused on the work before him, his broad shoulders tensed tight enough to stretch his fine cotton shirt. From the tips of his shiny leather boots to the top of his fashionably coiffed blond hair tied neatly with a ribbon, he dripped of entitlement. Whatever life the man had once lived, it was evident he now lived one of wealth. Benjamin wondered where in the past he had come from, and how he knew Marcus. Agnarr was a name Benjamin was certain he had never heard his father utter.

“G’morning, Dixon. I trust ye slept well,” Agnarr greeted him. Benjamin stared hard at him for a long moment, unsure how to approach the task. If he were to glean any information from the man, he needed to gain Agnarr’s trust. Yet for all his shortcomings, Benjamin was not skilled in deceit and found it was a new thing he must learn quickly if he were to succeed.

“Aye. As much as a prisoner might sleep, I suppose. One eye open, I’d say,” he answered evenly, meeting his captor’s gaze. To Benjamin’s surprise, Agnarr smiled. It was not a pleasant gesture, by any means, but he was amused, and that was something.

“Prisoner is an ugly word,” Agnarr said. “Perhaps guest is more fitting. At least when we speak as gentleman.”

“Gentlemen would state true intention, and I hear none of that yet. Until ye give me reason, I see ye as no more than another criminal,” Benjamin shot back. He knew he was taking a chance, but his need to know what this man wanted from him burned stronger than any ideas of self-preservation. If he could not find out what danger this man posed to his kin, then he was better off dead.

At his exclamation, Agnarr broke out in a laugh. The man waved his arm toward the road, where a squadron of King’s men rode toward them.

“A criminal, yea? Ha! I think ye should take a look around, my friend,” Agnarr chortled. “This is Wakehill, not a criminal’s lair.” Benjamin did so, grudgingly, acknowledging the evidence around him that he had missed on his initial perusal.

Yes, Agnarr was far from a criminal. Or else, he was a clever, wealthy one, with the strength of the King’s men at his command and impressive amount of wealth to throw around. When they had shuffled Benjamin into the house in the dark of night, hooded and bound, he had not been able to see the plantation, nor had he noticed it much when he stalked out to confront Agnarr when Jora summoned him. Now, staring at the impressive house and holdings, he knew he was in the presence of one of the wealthiest men in the colony. And that revelation made him more determined to discover what threat Agnarr was to the Neilsson Clan.

“So, shall we lay it out now? My truth for yours? I will start,” Agnarr said. He leaned back on the bed of a wagon, his face twisted in a surly grin. “You are the son of my old friend, Dagr Neilsson. I know he went to the future without issue, so ye must have been born there. Ye say ye had a wife, a blooded MacMhaolian, and that she died here in the Indian Massacre. Yet here ye are, here in this time. And ye say ye have no kin. Am I straight, fer now?”

Benjamin eyed him warily but nodded. It was the story he concocted, not entirely untrue, but the one he would stick to. Maggie was hale and hearty living as the wife of his brother, yet that detail was something Benjamin meant to protect above all else. If Agnarr believed the last of the MacMhaolians lost, then it would ensure the safety of those Benjamin loved.

“You say you were friend to my father,” Benjamin said.

“Our families have been…friends…for centuries. Longer than ye or I can imagine. Before our names were Sturlusson and Neilsson, they were other names, and even then our families were bound. And I know ye know what bound them, right, lad?”

“The blooded MacMhaolian,” Benjamin said simply. It was no use denying he knew it, and he suspected he could glean more information from Agnarr if he played along. The man seemed to enjoy his storytelling.

“Well, we want the same thing, then. To protect them. To see them safe. After all, it is a powerful magic, one that no man alone should control. Do you not agree?”

Benjamin crossed his arms over his chest. He glanced over at the men laboring, and then at the soldiers who looked to be enjoying a meal. He noticed Jora standing at the door of the house, watching them, her fine satin skirt drifting with the breeze and echoing the sway of her loose hair on her neck. He wondered what part she truly played in this plan.

“Ye know I am bound to protect them,” Benjamin said, forcing his voice to steady instead of growl.

“As am I. Are we not both the sons of Chiefs? Do we not pledge the same vow?” Agnarr questioned.

“Then why set yer men on me? Why this game, if we are the same?”

Agnarr flicked his wrist up and rolled his eyes skyward, a rather dainty gesture for such a large man, and one that caused Benjamin to scowl.

“I havna seen another Time Walker in more than twenty years. That’s why I set Jora on ye. I needed to know what you were about, and if ye had a Blooded MacMhaolian with ye.”

“And if I had?”

“Then I would have taken her. To protect her, of course,” Agnarr answered. The amusement left his gaze at this announcement, and his eyes narrowed. “But as it seems we are the same, with the same vows, then I give ye a proposition.”

“And that is?” Benjamin asked.

“You can see I am a wealthy man. I am the tobacco inspector for Elizabeth City, the only one sanctioned by the crown. You might say I am a man of…influence.”

Benjamin wanted to know exactly by what means Agnarr had amassed that wealth and influence, but the man seemed bent on another round of storytelling and would not be interrupted.

“…so I could use a man like ye. A man like myself.”

Agnarr glanced over at Jora, raising an eyebrow. The man gave a quick motion of his hand to wave her over and she complied. Benjamin noticed the girl went to Agnarr’s side, but she kept a careful distance between them, just out of reach of Agnarr’s grasp. Her action was not lost on him.

“For what might I be of use to ye?” Benjamin asked, dreading the answer at the same time he needed to hear it.

“Ye own a head-right property in Martin’s Hundred. I’ve been eyeing that spot for some time now, it’s quite canny ye…ah, uhm…fell into my presence.”

“So ye mean to rent it?” Benjamin asked, startled by Agnarr’s depth of knowledge. The man had surely done his research. Benjamin had given little thought to the head-right property he owned before the Massacre. Although he had worked hard to procure it as a young man, he had given nearly all his disposable wealth to Thomas Martin to secure Maggie’s hand in marriage. The land had sat vacant since then, left to the scavengers. He was not sure there was anything left worth taking.

“Aye. A business venture. One that would profit us both.”

Benjamin cast a glance at Jora.

“And her? What part does she play in yer…business?” he asked. He was not sure why he voiced the question, or why on earth he even cared, but he knew something was not right between them and he thought it best to discover what it was.

“My Jora will marry Reinn in a few weeks, and they will leave to live in town where they can tend my tavern. I’ll need a man I can trust here to watch over my holdings while I conduct my business at the docks. I’ll send some of my laborers to tend your land. A simple prospect, one that would serve ye well. Unless ye have other employment in mind?”

Benjamin did not fail to notice the way Jora straightened her back and clenched her fingers into her skirts, nor the way Agnarr shot a sly look at her from the corner of his eye. The girl spoke nothing in her defense, however, and Benjamin could only assume she was resigned to the arrangement. When he slowly extended his hand to Agnarr, he saw Jora bite her lower lip.

“That arrangement suits me. I shall accept yer offer.”

Agnarr grinned and clapped Benjamin on the shoulder. When the older man leaned in close, Benjamin could smell the scent of whiskey on his breath as he spoke low.

“Then welcome to Wakehill, Time Walker,” he said. “And I am verra sorry to hear of yer wife’s passing. I would have liked to meet her.”

Benjamin grimaced and nodded. He followed Agnarr on a tour of the plantation, relieved his captivity had ended.

He was no longer a prisoner. God help him, he was a partner with the devil himself.

By the end of the afternoon, Agnarr had introduced him to his men as a new partner, and none saw fit to question their master’s declaration. Although only a prisoner a few hours prior, Benjamin’s treatment by the others immediately changed to one of grudging respect. It seemed that Agnarr made known Benjamin was of a different kind, like their leader, and it gleaned an altogether quiet sort of admiration that Benjamin had only seen a few times in his life. Once, when men bowed down to his father; and then, when they kneeled to his brother, Winn. It was something Benjamin had only experienced from the outskirts, never the true recipient, so it was a new thing for him to be regarded as something more than a simple man. In the Norse village he had been the second son of the Chief, always in the shadow of his father and brother. Here, he was suddenly thrust into the right hand of the leader and given the regard of one with ancient blood. It was enough to unsettle him when he needed his wits about him the most.

When one of the soldiers approached and took Agnarr aside, the older man made his regrets to Benjamin.

“I need to attend to a few matters. I’ll leave you to see the rest of the land with Jora,” Agnarr declared before Benjamin could object. Jora, who had followed quietly behind as they made conversation, uttered a spurt of objection. With a single square glance from Agnarr, however, she shook off her previous dismay and stalked off ahead, muttering under her breath.

“I won’t be long,” Agnarr laughed. He held his hand out in guidance to Benjamin with a smirk, then left them. Benjamin had no choice but to follow the fleeing girl out past the barn.

She had a head start, and he could see that she held her skirts above her ankles in a very un-ladylike manner. He wondered where she had been raised, behaving as she did, knowing she was surely not the product of a strict English upbringing. With her obstinate speech, impudent objections, and all around annoying behaviors, she reminded him of one red-haired lass from a future time. As he widened his gait to catch up to Jora, he let his mind rest on what he had lost for a moment.

The memories were few, but they burned him. The scent of her soap, the softness of her amber hair under his fingers. The warmth of her flesh next to his. He still longed for it. Missed it. And though he knew it never truly belonged to him from the start, he still ached for it. Yet she was his brother’s wife, and the very thought should shame him.

It did, and he let it fade.

“Well? Have ye stumps fer legs, or are ye just a clod?”

He looked up at her taunt. Jora stood a few feet away, her hands perched on her hips, her chest rising and falling in quick bursts as she surveyed him.

“What?”

“You’re slow. I havna got all day. Come see the river, and we’ll be through,” she snapped.

He shook his head a bit, more to himself than at her, then climbed the sloping hill to join her. At the top he could easily see what she spoke of. The busy river churned below, and on the far side of the swirling current they could make out the Elizabeth City port. It was the main inlet of commerce for tobacco in the city, and he guessed it was the port that Agnarr was in charge of. The man was not boasting when he said he had wealth and power; being the only one with authority to approve the sale of tobacco in the city, he probably had his pockets lined by every plantation owner for miles around and then some.

“The warehouse belongs to Agnarr, as does the port. It’s the only one approved by the crown in Elizabeth City,” Jora said. There was a flat rock jutting up from the ground that she climbed onto, standing up tall to get a better view. She held her flattened hand to her head, blocking the sun from her eyes as she looked across the river.

“I see it. Now come down. Best I not have Agnarr’s Seer fall in the river first time we’re out of his sight,” Benjamin muttered. She turned to face him, her head only slightly taller than his from her perch on the rock. The height put them more on level than they could otherwise be, considering the girl’s head barely reached his shoulder when she stood beside him. He was accustomed to looking down on others, but he could see it irritated her. From the smug look on her face he suspected she had climbed up on the rock just for the purpose of baiting him.

“Well. Now you’re Agnarr’s man, are ye? And ye think he trusts ye?” she said.

“I have no illusion of that, miss,” he answered.

“Good. It’s best ye trust no one here.”

He was rapidly losing patience with her veiled taunts, and he was certain she had a game to play as well as Agnarr. Making a rash decision, he grabbed her hand and jerked her down off the ledge, eliciting an indignant screech from her and earning himself a slap across the face. Stunned, he stepped back as he rubbed his chin, but kept his hand firmly on hers despite her effort to yank it away.

“What did ye do that for?” he hollered.

“I didna ask ye to touch me, did I? And my betrothed wouldna like it, not one bit!” she replied. “And I’ll tell him, I will, and he’ll–”

“He’ll what, lass? Thrash me? I think you know he willna,” Benjamin said softly. The wild glare in her eye faded as she looked up at him, but he could see the undercurrent of something else brewing in her. Her eyes darted to her wrist, still held captive in his hand, then back to his face.

“Let me go,” she demanded.

“Not until I know ye willna slap me again. I’ve never hit a woman, but I aim to start if ye go on like this,” he replied. He was lying, but she couldn’t know that. As far as she knew, he was a heartless bastard that had just joined ranks with a man she seemed to despise. “So tell me, why will ye marry Reinn? Do ye do everything Agnarr bids ye?”

Although he continued to hold her, she twisted her wrist, and he noticed she grimaced with the discomfort but did not back down. She glared at him, her eyes shining with defiance, and then to his surprise, brimming with moisture.

Oh, good God, woman. Don’t start crying, he thought. All he needed was to bring Jora back hysterical and disheveled to give his new associate a good impression of him.

“Here, I’m sorry, It’s surely none of my concern–” he explained. He took his free hand and patted the one he held, hoping to soothe her before she burst. If there was nothing that made him more uncomfortable, it was the sight of a crying woman and knowing he had caused it.

“But it is. It is your concern,” she said softly. “Because I have a proposition fer ye as well.”

He felt he should drop her hand at that point, yet he could not. She had twisted her fingers into his, therefore preventing his retreat. Suddenly the tables were turned, and he did not like it in the least.

“Oh, do ye?” he replied. She nodded.

“Ye’ll fare better in yer standing with Agnarr if–if ye ask for my hand. If we wed, you willna be here under his watch, and–and ye can tend the tavern with me in town,” she blurted out in a rapid rush. She looked as stunned as he did at her offer, her face turning a rather deep shade of scarlet against her pale cheeks.

“And why on God’s earth would I want to do that?” he shouted. When he tried to drop her hand, she held it tighter.

“Because you have no one here ye can trust. And I know things about ye!” she replied.

“Resorting to threats now? Is Reinn such a terrible prospect ye’d throw yerself at me? Ye’ve known me all of–of one day!”

Finally she dropped his hand. She lowered her head and turned her back to him, and he could see her shoulders shake as she spoke.

“Aye. I’ve known ye one day, and I can see yer a better man than Reinn. Any fool could see that.”

He raked his hands through his hair and let out a frustrated groan. This was a complication he did not need, one he had not anticipated in his quest to discover what sort of threat Agnarr posed. Now, in front of him, asking for his help, was a young woman he could not figure out. Was she devious in her plea, or just desperate? She was a Seer, after all, and skilled in the art of emotional manipulation. Perhaps she had some greater reason for begging his assistance. Or was it part of Agnarr’s plan?

“Did Agnarr put ye to this?” he demanded. He grabbed her by her shoulders and swung her around, nearly lifting her off her feet. Her mouth draped open when he shook her.

“No! Ye may be a mean spirited whoreson, but yer no bastard like Reinn is. I’ve had no other option until today, and I mean to take it,” she insisted. “Here. I will show ye,” she said, taking his hand again. She sat down on the rock and pulled him beside her, leaning over his lap so that she could place her palms on his face. He drew away at first, but then relented, curious as to what power the tiny Seer could have to convince him.

Her hands felt cool at first, then warmed to his flesh as she held them in place. A rolling tremor surfaced in his belly and a wave of nausea assaulted him causing him to draw back, but she went with him and said something softly he could not hear. The curious sensation passed, replaced by a numbness in his skull, and suddenly it was as if a swell of water broke forth from a dam. Something flowed through him, with him, visions in his head that he could not decipher in a swirl, until the pressure of her hands increased and the images slowed their frantic dance.

Now he could see them clearly. Jora, as a child, alone, then taken by Agnarr. Growing older, he could see her fear and loneliness as she lived in his household, treated no better than a servant. And then, although he could not picture it, rather he felt it, he knew Agnarr discovered her powers, and suddenly Jora had much more worth to him. He had witnessed in person the way Reinn treated her, so Benjamin was not surprised to see more of the same in Jora’s visions.

Overcome by her grief, he put his hand on her wrists. When their flesh collided, another image surfaced like a bolt through his skull. It was Jora, and he was staring down at her. She was in his arms, staring up at him as she smiled and raised her lips for him to kiss.

He opened his eyes, aware that his breath came suddenly stilted and that he was now staring at her in an entirely different way. He had no time to consider it before her palm cracked across his face. Again.

“Odin’s tooth, woman, I swear I–I should–oh, damn ye,” he muttered as he closed his mouth over hers. He had no notion why he did it. Perhaps it was the strength of the vision, or the way it seemed so real, but suddenly all he wanted was to kiss her. She seemed in agreement at first, her body softening in his hands, until in a quick turn she pulled away from him. This time he caught her wrist before she could slap him, and as she sat there glaring at him with her lips deliciously swollen he wondered just what kind of man he truly was.

“Ye’ll not strike me again, unless ye wish it returned,” he warned. She was shaking, but her eyes remained defiant.

“I’ll not bed ye without a promise of marriage, Benjamin Dixon. And ye can keep yer paws to yerself until I get it!”

With that threat she leapt to her feet, hiked up her skirts, and took off back toward the farm. He watched her round bottom swing with her agitated gait as she did her best to flee his presence.

Had she sent him the vision on purpose?

As he went after her, he let out a frustrated groan at the prospect. Not only was he knee-deep in partnership with a sworn enemy, he was being swindled by a she-devil Seer bent on marriage.

He was not sure things could get much worse.

Jora

THE VISIONS DID not always obey her command. She had intended only to give Benjamin a glimpse of her past to show her sincerity, but when the bastard grabbed her hands it set her off like a flame. Yes, she had seen it as well, and her heart still hammered in her chest at the way he had kissed her.

She took a gulp of cider, noticing how badly her hands shook as she paced the room. Both Benjamin and Agnarr would be back soon, as would Reinn. In all truth, she did not expect to be turned down in such a heinous manner by Benjamin. After all, she was a decent looking young woman, and marriage to her would elevate his standing with Agnarr. If Benjamin was so intent on forming an alliance, then surely he would see the sense in the match?

She sat down on her bed when she heard the front door open, uncertain if it were Benjamin or Agnarr. It was too soon for her to face Benjamin after he had rejected her, and she had no further plan in place to avoid the marriage to Reinn. Agnarr would expect her compliance, and her time was running out.

“Jora?”

Agnarr knocked and pushed open the door as he called to her. She sighed. It was his home. Everything belonged to him, and he never let anyone forget that he was the one with all the power.

“Come in,” she mumbled.

“Did ye show our new friend about the property?” he asked as he loosened the collar of his linen shirt. He stretched his neck upward, running his fingers around the cloth to widen the gap, then pulled the ribbon from his blond hair. He raised an eyebrow in question as he made himself more comfortable. It made her increasingly uncomfortable the way he took liberties in her presence, especially in the one room she felt safe. Yet it was his home, not hers, a reminder she always kept fresh at hand.

“Yes. It will suffice.”

“And?” he asked. He sat down on the bed next to her and she immediately turned to put distance between them.

“And what, my lord? He’s in awe of your wealth. He knows what a great man ye are,” she replied.

He smiled and patted her hand.

“So this is a good thing for us. Ye can marry Reinn right away, and Benjamin can stay here to see to things. I should thank you for your good fortune in finding him, lass.”

Her eyes darted down to her lap. He left his hand on hers a moment longer than necessary, then cleared his throat as he stood. She did not want to keep him in her presence any longer, but it might be her only chance to sway him. Taking a deep breath, she stood to follow him.

“Agnarr, I have a…suggestion for ye,” she stammered.

He turned back quickly on his booted heel, his curiosity clearly piqued.

“Oh, aye? And what might that be?” he asked.

“A ch-change in plan. Reinn knows yer land here, he’s kept yer place for years. He doesna know much of running the tavern, but I do…”

“Go on,” he urged.

“...it will take time to shape Benjamin into what ye need. Why not leave Reinn here, and send Benjamin to tend the tavern…with me?”

Agnarr appeared stunned for a moment, but quickly recovered his composure. The corner of his mouth turned up in a grin.

“Oh, so I see. Ye’d wed Benjamin then, would ye?”

She clenched her skirts in her fists, nodding.

“I think it would suit ye better that way,” she whispered. “And I can watch over him. He’d have no secrets from ye,” she added, hating herself for proposing to betray Benjamin as an end to her own means.

She was not comforted by Agnarr’s smile.

“So when he runs back to his people, you will betray him? What a fine wife you would make,” Agnarr laughed. “Well. A wise offer, dearest. One I will give deep consideration to,” he murmured. He left, closing the door behind him.

She sat down on her bed. What on earth had she done?

They ate in silence. Jora noticed the conspicuous absence of Reinn, his chair beside Agnarr empty throughout the meal. Benjamin did not look her way or engage her in conversation, taking his share with only polite conversation to Agnarr over the affairs of the farm from the day. She wondered if Agnarr had discussed her proposition with Benjamin and if that was why Benjamin ignored her. Or perhaps Benjamin simply told the truth when he declared no interest in marrying her. Both options seemed equally as bleak to her, and it was all she could do to swallow bites of food down her dry throat as the men ignored her.

The interlude broke with the crash of the door flung open against the wall. Reinn stalked into the room, unkempt from his day of labor and his eyes glaring for a fight. Filthy from head to boot and boasting the stink of the docks about him, he immediately strode to Benjamin and grabbed him by the collar.

“Ye think ye can walk in here and take what’s mine?” Reinn shouted. Reinn made valiant effort to lift Benjamin off his feet, but Benjamin was comparable in height if not in width and it was a task Reinn could not accomplish. Instead, Reinn shoved Benjamin away from the table, and as Benjamin recovered his balance, Reinn drew his knife.

“I’ll take what I need, and you’ll abide!” Benjamin snapped in retort. Agnarr stood up, the grin on his face amused.

“Come now, we can discuss this–” Agnarr said, raising his mug to his lips. He looked to egg them on rather than stop them, and his gesture did nothing to calm the tempers ablaze.

“Nay! I’ll not let this lie, Agnarr! We shoulda kilt this stranger from the start, be damned his magic blood or not!”

Benjamin pounced while Reinn was distracted, tackling Reinn to the floor at the base of the meal table. The floor shuddered beneath her feet as the men hit the ground, and she stepped back to give them room as they pummeled each other. Neither had the clear upper hand, and it was after watching them thrash for a few moments that Agnarr finally stepped in.

“Enough!” Agnarr shouted. Agnarr grabbed the back of Reinn’s collar and thrust him aside, then offered a hand to Benjamin. Benjamin stood up yet did not take Agnarr’s assistance, but Reinn saw the motion and uttered a slew of oaths.

“I’ve been at yer side since we were lads. And this is what I get?” Reinn demanded, turning his anger on Agnarr.

Jora held her breath as Agnarr went very still. His amused grin faded, replaced by terse slanted lips stretched thin across his face. Reinn rarely challenged Agnarr, and when he did, it never turned out well for anyone.

“Reinn, we will speak outside. Jora, clean up this mess,” Agnarr said evenly. Jora obeyed immediately, letting her breath out in one long sigh when the two men left the house.

Benjamin dropped down onto a stool. His face was pale beneath the flush of his scarlet cheeks, and he slumped a bit to dab tentatively at his face. Blood trickled down his brow from a jagged laceration over his eye.

“Here. Be still,” she muttered. She grabbed a cloth from the table and moistened it with whiskey, then wrung it out before she leaned over him. He winced when she blotted at the wound on his head.

“Thank ye,” he muttered.

“Yer welcome,” she replied. The wound was not deep and the bleeding slowed with little intervention. “Ye might need a stitch. I can mend it, just stay there.”

“Nay. Leave it,” he said. She felt the press of his knee against her skirts as she worked to tend him, and suddenly his nearness caused a flush to rise over her skin like a wave. His eyes were level with hers, and as she swallowed hard she realized that her shift was gaping at a very inappropriate spot. She was about to step away when she felt his hand on her waist. It was not demanding, nor firm, only a gentle pressure as if to steady her, but it set her heart into a race so fast she thought surely he could see it pulsing in her chest.

She looked slowly down at him. Blazing blue eyes softened, and for a moment she was captured by his gaze. His lips parted and his eyes flickered from her hand where she tended him to her mouth, and then back to her eyes.

Oh, my, she thought. His stare sent a bolt of ache into her belly, a throb unlike she had ever known. She uttered a low gasp when his mouth covered hers, feeling the rush as he gathered her in his arms.

She knew she should object. Already she had slapped him for such bold behavior. Yet at the same time she did not want his touch to ever stop, nor his hands to leave her, or his lips to abandon hers. She tried to remind herself of the greater goal, of securing a better life for herself, a life free of Agnarr’s stranglehold and a life free from the abusive Reinn. If she gave everything to him with no assurance of safe haven, where would that leave her?

All good sense was lost in his arms. She heard meal fixings clutter to the ground from the jostled table, saw a jug of ale topple to the floor, but she could think of nothing other than to continue letting him kiss her.

“What are ye to Agnarr?” he murmured between kisses. His lips traveled across her cheek to her ear, and as the meaning of his words hit her she felt a wave of ice wash over her heart.

“What do ye mean?” she whispered. She stiffened he seemed not to notice, apparently too caught up in his ploy to get information out of her.

“Has he tired of ye? Is that why he marries ye off?”

The pleasure she enjoyed from his attention faded. So he thought she shared Agnarr’s bed. Did Benjamin think she would share his, as well, without a promise of marriage?

“Did he offer ye my hand?” she asked, allowing him to place a light kiss upon the hollow of her throat despite her anger.

“Aye. I gave him no answer…yet,” he replied.

She shoved him with both hands at the revelation, sending him sprawling upright as she clutched her shift back into decency. He shook his head as if stunned, as if he had no idea why she might refuse his attentions at that moment.

“If ye think I’ll bed ye without a promise to wed, you are surely a fool,” she said. Her body trembled but her words were even as she glared at him.

He stepped back as if to leave, but then changed his course and strode back to her. When she raised a hand to hit him he deflected it, easily catching her wrist and bending it to her side. He kissed her then, hard and unrepentant, much different than the careful way he had courted her before, and she shrank back away from his touch this time.

“If ye don’t wish to be bedded, then stop flouting yerself at me. I’m no gentleman, lass, and best ye remember that,” he growled. When he loosened his grip she twisted away from him and tried to recover her breath.

She did not know if she was more sickened at herself for her deception and lies, or for her wanton behavior with the stranger in front of her. Yes, he assured her he was not a good man, and by all means his behavior lent credence to his claim. Yet she had seen inside his soul, to the deepest parts where he shielded his heart, and although she could not breech all of his past yet she saw enough to know some truth of him.

For some reason, he lied. He held great regret, and had suffered some deep pain she could not fathom, so much so that he even thought of himself as a fallen man. But she saw that one drop of redemption in him, a trickle she knew could turn into a pool if he would forgive himself for his past. No, he was no gentleman, but he was no rogue, either.

“I didna flout myself. I helped ye. And if this is how ye repay my favor, then perhaps I am better off with Reinn!” she shouted.

As he fastened the buttons of his shirt that has gone askew, the edge of his mouth twisted into a wry grin.

“Oh, aye. I call yer bluff on that, lass. If that’s what ye wanted, ye wouldna gone to Agnarr with yer offer,” he chuckled. She uttered a squeal and picked up the nearest object she could find, a heavy stone bowl, and threw it at his head. He continued to laugh as he deflected it, coming toward her with his hands up when she bent to find another missile.

“Well, I rescind the offer! Stay here alone and rot, for what I care!” she shrieked.

“Did I miss something here? I thought I took the fight outside?”

She dropped the bowl in her hands and it landed with a thud on the plank floor. Agnarr stood in the doorway, a bemused but wary expression on his face.

Before she could respond, Benjamin put a hand on Agnarr’s arm and nodded outside.

“I’ll have words with ye now, Agnarr. I have terms of my own to close this deal,” he said.

Jora watched, stunned, as they left together.

He was considering the offer. She could be Benjamin’s wife instead of Reinn’s. She would be out from under Agnarr’s thumb, free to live her own life.

She sat down hard on the stool Benjamin had vacated.

Benjamin

BENJAMIN BUSIED HIMSELF as he had every other afternoon in the last week at Wakehill. Avoiding time alone with Jora and listening to every tidbit that Agnarr tossed his way seemed an admirable plan. The last thing he needed was to get into another uncomfortable situation with the woman, especially since he had not given Agnarr a final answer on his offer to wed the lass.

Agnarr required more of him than he meant to give. For a bride price he asked for the title to Benjamin’s head-right property. Although Benjamin had not given his ownership of the land any consideration since before the Massacre, it now seemed it was a powerful bargaining chip to a man whose secrets he meant to reveal. Moving away out from under Agnarr’s observant thumb would lead to a much more comfortable existence, yet the only way he could accomplish that while appearing loyal to the man was to wed Jora. She was the only way to get off Wakehill plantation without arousing suspicion, yet was she worth the price of his land? He was still not certain.

While Agnarr went over expense ledgers, Reinn gave him report on the tobacco trade at the docks. Agnarr placed his silver letter opener aside with two dainty fingers, rubbing it clean before he placed it on the velvet ledger book and gave Reinn his attention. Agnarr was the only tobacco inspector approved by the Crown in Elizabeth City, and thus, his favor was sought by every planter in town. In addition, Agnarr owned most of the docks that major traders used, and his shipping warehouses were the largest in the city. The man had quite a hold on commerce in the town, and there were few that dared cross him. Benjamin heard murmurs among the men of the unfortunates that questioned Agnarr’s authority. Even the English militia scurried to his call.

“Reinn, have the horses readied. I shall take a ride to Martin’s Hundred today to see my new property,” Agnarr announced, ending his ledger entry with a flourish. He carefully tucked the quill back into the inkwell, then crossed his hands over his taut belly as he sat back in his chair.

Benjamin pretended to be engrossed in his own ledger assignment as Reinn approached Agnarr’s desk. Reinn’s demeanor was nothing near polite, and Benjamin was well aware that last time Reinn challenged Agnarr it did not fare well.

Reinn leaned over on the desk, placing his hands shoulder width apart as he surveyed Agnarr.

“Today we must do that? He hasna given ye the property yet, and ye shouldna waste time without his word. Maybe he willna marry the lass after all–”

Agnarr rose up so swiftly Benjamin could not see the strike, but suddenly Reinn howled like a man afire and collapsed down on one knee. His hand seemed stuck to the ledger, and as the man knelt down in pain Benjamin could see why.

Agnarr stood above him, a blond curl uncharacteristically out of place across his temple, his fist curled around the letter opener which now impaled Reinn’s hand to the ledger. Agnarr shook his head and took a step back, then sighed as he straightened his silk vest. He tucked the wayward curl carefully back behind his ear, and then he turned his attention back to the man writhing on the floor in front of his desk.

“You were saying, Reinn?” he quipped. He peered over the desk and deftly removed the letter opener with one swipe. Reinn staggered to his feet, clutching his bleeding hand.

“I’ll ready the horses,” Reinn choked out.

Reinn scurried out of the room and Agnarr finally looked at Benjamin.

“So ye’ll stay here at Wakehill. Canna leave our Jora alone, now, can we?” Agnarr said causally.

Benjamin nodded.

“Of course. We canna have the lass left alone.”

Agnarr patted him on the shoulder as he went by, and Benjamin let out a sigh of relief.

More proof that Agnarr was not a man to cross. What on God’s earth had he gotten himself into?

“So they left ye here to watch me?” Benjamin commented. He was acutely aware of being alone with Jora all afternoon, as much as he wished to deny it. He kept his eyes downcast, focusing on the book resting on his knees. He heard the telltale creak of the wood as he leaned back in the chair so he let it return flat to the floor. Nothing in the house seemed adequate enough for a man of his size, with even the doorways so short he needed to duck through them or risk bashing his brain. He had suffered a head injury in the past and was not eager to experience it again.

He frowned and from the corner of his eye he noticed Jora approach. She probably thought his dismay was directed at her, as usual, but it was not what bothered him. As she leaned over his shoulder he caught a hint of her scent–skin scrubbed fresh with a cake of violet soap–and he swallowed hard. Damn it, he wanted her there. And if he wanted her there, then it meant perhaps death might be less attractive to him.

“He knows ye won’t run. He trusts ye. At least for that,” she retorted. “As for the rest of it, well, ye’ll have to prove yer word.”

He glanced slightly up from the book. He had not read a single word since she entered the room.

“Oh, aye? And what word do I still need to prove? That I will stand by him…or that I want ye?” he replied.

They had played the game for days, but he was determined to see it through. With all of the powers she possessed, Jora was difficult, but not impossible to challenge. He had some strength of mind of his own and he knew she could not glean everything she wished to know from him. Even the few times they touched she could not see through all the barricades in his heart, and for that he was glad. But he would be damned if he let a slip of a woman ruin his plans to protect his family. Marrying her would get him into town, out from under Agnarr’s thumb, and in the best position to watch over his kin.

“Yer a liar,” she snapped. “You gave him no firm answer. If ye wanted me, ye’d tell him by now.” She turned abruptly away and stomped off to the hearth when he continued to study the book. He tilted his head enough to see her flushed cheeks. She threw some dry kindling onto the fire and then began to poke the logs with a stick, stabbing them as if she pictured him there instead of the wood.

Did it upset her, thinking he was using her? He could think of no other reason for her behavior, but the realization startled him. Underneath her confident disguise he had seen an undercurrent of fear, of a woman with very few options. Perhaps this game they played bothered her more than she wished to admit.

He closed the book and placed it on the table, then approached her. Her back straightened, and his heavy footsteps seemed louder than the crackle of the fire. He placed his hands lightly on her shoulders and slowly increased the pressure, pulling her back against his chest. She felt rigid in is hands until he bent his head to her ear, and it was then that he noticed goosebumps rise up along her neck.

“He asks a steep price for yer hand. I am a man of limited means,” he murmured.

She let out a sharp sigh.

“Am I not worth a few acres of land?” she whispered.

“Oh, aye, lass. I think ye are. I do want ye,” he said softly, brushing her hair with his lips as he spoke. She let out a slow breath.

“I don’t know why ye lie. But God help me, if I must marry, then I would have ye. I have no other choice that’s decent,” she whispered.

So she had thought things over, and decided he was still her best option. Clever. Crafty. Well, it would makes things better for both of them if she was more willing. He certainly had not relished the thought of seducing her, after their disastrous last encounter, so he was relieved she changed her tactic. He turned her around to face him.

“Is that so?” he asked. Her skin was flushed scarlet as if the heat of the flame had scorched her cheeks, and her tawny eyes were round and wide. She nodded as she bit down on her lower lip.

“Yes. I will have ye,” she whispered.

His chest tightened at her words, and his breath caught fast. Suddenly his plan was forgotten and all he could see was her white teeth biting down on her pink lip. Losing his thought, he slipped his fingers up into her hair and tilted her head back as he covered her mouth with his. He was stunned when she responded, eagerly meeting his kiss.

He should discover what game she played, or demand to know why she seemed to want him. He should hold her away and insist on an answer. He should stop kissing her.

But he did not want to.

“Here,” he said. He bent and swept her into his arms, kissing her as he brought her into his room. He let her slide to the ground as he kicked the door closed, and closed his eyes for a moment to steady himself.

When he placed her on her feet she pulled away from his kiss then and paused, her chest heaving as she stood before him.

He wondered if she had changed her mind. And then he wondered if he was enough of a cad to seduce her if she was unwilling. Part of him knew it was to gain Agnarr’s trust. Yet that part was buried. He wanted her even if she did not care for him. She could be a means to his end, and he could at least find some solace in what he meant to do.

“Are ye all right?” he asked. She nodded, wordless, and he did not ask again.

Later, he told himself she was willing, and she knew he was no gentleman, as if that absolved him from any guilt in the matter. As he laid beside her and struggled to recover his breath, he looked over at her.

“Jora?” he said, touching her cheek. When she bit down over her lip and said nothing, he rolled to his side and pulled her against his chest. She curled her back against him, facing away, but when he realized she was shaking he knew something was wrong. “I didna hurt ye, did I? I’m sorry…it’s been a long time—”

“I expected it to hurt. I’m fine,” she said quietly.

As his pounding heart slowed, his blood seemed to drain along with it. What was she saying?

“Jora…do men usually hurt ye, when ye lay with them?” he stammered. He asked the senseless question, even as the sickness in his belly burned stronger and he knew she meant something else entirely.

“I would not know,” she whispered. “Ye are the first.”

Benjamin did not know whether to leap out of the bed and holler at her, or dissolve into his own bout of self humiliation. How could he have not known? Granted, he had no experience with women other than his wife, and she had not come to his bed a maid. As much as he might have wished it otherwise, the scarcity of women in the colony leant men few options.

In the end, he clutched her tighter, holding her tenderly against his chest. She melded into him like a bow, accepting his clumsy gesture without fight. He pressed his lips into her hair as he felt her let out a shallow sob.

Oh, Jesus. He was a senseless piece of rubbish.

“I’m sorry. If—if ye’d told me, I—I would have…oh, don’t cry! Please don’t cry,” he bade her. At loss to console her, he kissed her gently close to her ear. “I’m so sorry. I’m an arse.”

“Ye couldn’t tell?” she asked, still turned away from him. Her fingers clutched his arms, still tight around her. “I thought a man could tell.”

He was glad she could not see him at that point, his face filling with heat as he tried to give her an honest answer. It was difficult to admit his most personal thoughts to her, but considering his utter lack of delicacy, he at least owed her an explanation.

“I’ve not had much experience, myself, truth be told. Only with my wife, and she did not come to me untouched,” he admitted.

“Oh. Oh, I see,” she replied.

“Ye hid yer secret well,” he said, at loss to convey his intention without insulting her. It was clear he had completely misjudged her, and he felt like a cad. “I thought—well, I thought ye wanted this as much as I.”

“I did,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I told ye if I must marry, I would choose ye. Now it’s done, and they canna make me marry another. You won’t go back on your word, will ye?”

He sighed.

“No, lass, I willna. I will keep ye. You will be my wife,” he said. She seemed satisfied with that, and he felt her body relax against him. Had she used him, or had he used her? The question rattled him, and he had no answer for it. All he knew was that he wanted to hold the woman in his arms. He wanted to take back the clumsy way he had treated her and give her something better.

For the first time in nearly a year, he wanted to see the next sunrise. He wanted the chance to try again.

“Next time will be different,” he whispered. He felt her nod.

“I trust ye. In that, at least,” she murmured.

He waited until her breathing slowed and she relaxed in his arms, and then he closed his eyes. In the morning he would regain control of the situation. For now, he would hold the confusing lass in his arms.

Rebecca

“ALONE I SEE? About time you came up for air!”

Rebecca looked up as Maggie let herself into the long house, smiling at her friend despite the flush of warmth settling over her cheeks. Leave it to Maggie to be crass about the marriage bed.

“Do all women from the future speak so–so brazen?” Rebecca chastised her, smiling despite her embarrassment. “I wouldn’t fault yer husband for taking a switch to ye, not fer one second!”

Maggie burst into a fit of giggles as she bounced onto Rebecca’s bedding platform. Her red hair was spread like a fan across her shoulders, and Rebecca noted she wore a new dress lined with embroidered edging. It was in a high-waist style and flattered her petite figure in a pleasing manner.

“It’s just an observation, no harm,” Maggie retorted. “And if Winn ever laid a hand to me, I’d break his good right arm.”

“Maggie!”

“What? Come on now!” Maggie snorted. “You know me better than that. From the future or not, I won’t stand for that sort of thing and you know it.”

“Might do ye some good,” Rebecca muttered with a smile. Maggie kicked her legs out and leaned back on the platform on her elbows, eyeing Rebecca in a most severe manner.

“So. Where did your new husband run off to? Is he with mine? I can’t seem to find Winn anywhere. I worry when he goes off without telling me.”

Rebecca regained her composure and resorted to folding her linens in a more methodical manner. Maggie needed no encouragement when she was up to something, and it was quite clear the Chief’s wife was plotting some scheme. With the intent of trying to decipher her friend’s game, Rebecca averted her eyes and tried to flesh out the truth.

“I’m sure they’re just busy,” Rebecca answered. Maggie scowled.

“Right. So fess up. You know what they’re up to, don’t you?”

“No! I mean…well…Makedewa did mention something about going into town. But they would have told us. They wouldna just leave without a word,” Rebecca admitted. She was not entirely comfortable disclosing any tidbit of information to Maggie, lest the woman run off half-cocked and tumble into trouble.

“I knew it!” Maggie muttered. She jumped off the bed and went for the door, and Rebecca grabbed her by the wrist before she could leave.

“Come back here!” Rebecca admonished her. She pulled her friend over to the platform and resorted to yanking on her arm to get her to sit. Maggie acquiesced without too much fight, much to Rebecca’s relief.

“I just have a bad feeling. Something’s not right, I don’t want them to go into town. There’s some reason Benjamin didn’t come back and they’re keeping it from us,” Maggie admitted.

“Hush. Ye spend so much time worrying on things ye have no say in. Ye know Winn only means to keep ye happy. If there was something amiss, he would tell ye.”

Maggie sighed. Rebecca wound her fingers through Maggie’s and clasped her hand tightly. Maggie squeezed her gently back in return.

“I suppose you’re right,” Maggie replied.

“Maybe he’s just staying away. Maybe he still mourns Marcus. Or…” Rebecca drifted off without finishing the thought, her mind wandering back to them time Benjamin had lived among them. She was aware of the history between Maggie and Benjamin, and because of it Rebecca was not surprised Benjamin stayed away. Although no one blamed Benjamin outright for the death of Marcus, she knew some made whisper of the accusation when the Chief was out of earshot. Maggie and Winn seemed to have moved beyond the ghosts of the past when it came to Benjamin, and they expected all others to do the same. Yet nevertheless Benjamin had left the village, and he stayed away even as Makedewa returned.

Rebecca would not admit it, but Maggie was right. There was some reason Benjamin stayed away. Until he chose to return, they had no way of knowing what that reason was.

“All right then. Fine. I’ll leave it be. I suppose he has his reasons for staying away,” Maggie sighed. “I can see Winn is troubled over it. I just wish I could help somehow.”

“Ye can help by leaving it to the men. Tend yer husband and do his bidding. Like ye usually do,” Rebecca laughed, adding the last tidbit with a sly smile. Maggie elbowed her in the ribs and they both laughed, but Rebecca could see the remnants of unease eating at Maggie. “Was it so different? I mean, where ye came from? I love ye senseless, Maggie, but sometimes ye have the strangest ideas. I canna imagine what sort of life ye lived before ye came here,” Rebecca added.

Maggie stilled at the question, her laughter tapering off into a stilted chuckle. Rebecca squeezed her hand and Maggie returned the gesture, but the mood between them suddenly changed.

“Some things were different,” Maggie said softly. She let loose a short sigh and her green eyes seemed to glisten. Maggie’s lips thinned into a tight line, and her teeth bit down over her lower lip before she spoke. “I had other things to worry over then. Paying the bills, keeping the farm running. Caring for my grandfather. But I took care of it all somehow. I could fix anything, or at least it seemed that way. And if I couldn’t fix it myself, then Marcus was there to help.”

“I know ye miss him. We all do,” Rebecca said.

Maggie nodded, smiling. “Oh, I do miss him. It seems like a dream now, when I think on it. Marcus…Grandfather. As if it’s some story I made up in my head, something I never truly lived. But I did live it, it was my life. I was in college, I had a few friends…I thought someday I would get married, have kids and a dog, like everyone else.”

“Would ye go back to it, if ye could?” Rebecca asked. She feared speaking the question aloud but could not stem it. It was a question she often asked of herself. It hung there in the silence between them as Maggie took a long moment to respond.

“Go back? No,” she whispered. “This is the place I was meant for. Even if I’m just a spectator most of them time, I know it’s where I should be. Sometimes I dream I’m back in the farmhouse in my old room, and I wake up on soft cotton sheets with my head on a fluffy feather pillow. And then, as the dream drifts away and I wake up, I feel Winn’s arm around me. Even if he’s not there, I still…feel him. He ties me to him, like we’re twisted together somewhere deep down. I can’t say it any other way. I don’t know how we’re bound, but we are, and it’s something I cannot run from.”

Maggie squeezed Rebecca’s fingers. “You’ll know how that is, right?”

Rebecca nodded, swallowing down the tightness in her throat. Yes, she understood a bit of that twisting. It was that twining between two people, the tendrils that linked them together. It might start out small, a tiny knot, but over time it grew larger, tighter. Stronger. And even if you panicked and tried to unravel it, the fight only gave it strength. It could not be broken.

“Oh, I think I know,” Rebecca answered. They sat shoulder to shoulder, the conversation left hanging in the silence of the Long house.

Kyra burst into the Long house as a wee whirlwind. Her cheeks were round red cherries standing out against her dirt-stained skin, her chest rising and falling in rapid excited breaths.

“Mama, come quick. Morgan’s here!” the girl shouted. Kyra scarce took a breath before she raced off again, leaving them in the wake of her declaration.

“Morgan? Kwetii, wait!” Maggie replied. “Come on–sounds like we have visitors. I can’t feed them all by myself.”

Rebecca followed Maggie from the long house. She smiled at the sight of her friend picking up the skirts of her new dress and taking off into a run after her daughter through the yard.

John Jackson perched in the middle of a group of enamored young Norsemen. The Norse traveled only infrequently into the English towns, so the advent of a friendly visitor brought their work for the afternoon to a sudden halt. With one raised leg resting on the edge of the well, the visitor accepted the offer of mead from Cormaic and settled down to give them gossip from town.

Rebecca had only met him once or twice, but he was an affable fellow and seemed to mean no harm to them. Although John was an Englishman, his mother had been French, and despite his oath laden speech he was a well-educated man. Rebecca was aware Young Morgan White was John’s ward, and they all owed thanks to John and Morgan for helping Chief Winn when he was captured. If not for John sending Morgan to alert them, Winn would have been hung by the English.

She noticed Kyra flanking the older boys. Ahi Kekeleksu and Morgan sat by the woods in a semi circle, drawing figures in the sandy soil. Iain, an older half-Norse, half-Indian youth, stood watching them. Occasionally one of the boys would toss a pebble or stick at Kyra to chase her off, but the girl would not be swayed. Kyra followed Morgan as if she were a lost puppy, watching his every move and thrilled with even a smile from him.

“She is fixed on Young Morgan,” Rebecca commented to Maggie. As Maggie filled a pitcher with fresh mead, she glanced over at the children with a smile.

“Uhm, yeah, she sure is,” Maggie replied. “Keke teases her about it. She punched her cousin in the gut over it, and Winn had to scold her.”

“I am not surprised by that,” Rebecca laughed. She hoisted a basket of bread up near her shoulder and brought it to the table, and as she bent to place it she noticed her husband join the men. From his place beside Chief Winn, Makedewa met her gaze across the yard. He made no outward smile, always the stalwart one, but she could see his eyes brighten and his brows raise when he saw her. Arms crossed over his chest, he stood with legs braced slightly apart. When he raised his chin in her direction she saw Chetan roll his eyes, and Makedewa shot him a seething glare. The exchange made her giggle, and drew Maggie’s attention.

“Oh, good. They’re back,” Maggie commented. When Maggie set off to see Winn, Rebecca wiped her damp hands off on her apron and followed her, lugging a pitcher of mead along to distribute. For once she was glad Maggie was impetuous and bold; surely there was no harm in following the Chief’s wife, and if it meant seeing Makedewa sooner rather than later, then it was well worth it.

The men were deep in conversation when the two women came into earshot. John Jackson spoke in a cluttered mixture of English and French, with the frequent obscenities flagrant enough to make her blush. It seemed not to bother then men, but she regretted intruding on them. Unlike Maggie, Rebecca was content with the knowledge that there were some things the men needed to deal with alone.

When Maggie offered the men cups, Rebecca made rounds to fill them. Winn did not go out of his way to acknowledge his wife, but Rebecca saw the subtle movement of his hand brushing Maggie’s hip when she greeted him. Would things ever be so easy between her and Makedewa?

Early that morning Makedewa expressed remorse at needing to leave their marriage bed, but she understood he had duties to his kin. After their first night together as man and wife she had longed to waste the day away in exploration of their newfound bond, yet that respite was not theirs to be had. Life marched on, newly married or no. Makedewa wore his careful aloof mask, and Rebecca felt like a flustered girl once more under his watchful stare.

When she finally made way to Makedewa and moved to fill his cup, he closed his fingers over hers and kept her close. Only for a moment, it was a gesture so slight that no one noticed, and warmth coursed over her skin at his touch.

“Hello, wife,” he murmured, bending so that his lips brushed her ear. She kept her head lowered and smiled as the men continued with their conversation.

“Hello, husband,” she whispered. He raised the cup to his mouth, and she could see the corners turned up in a grin over the rim.

“And Makedewa, what say you? I hear ye’ve married this Englishwoman, vous batard cornee! Dare I bid ye good tidings, or do ye care naught for the well wishes of an Englishman?” John Jackson proclaimed, interrupting their private moment.

Makedewa took another sip, pausing before he responded. Rebecca thought she saw the light of tense amusement in his eyes as he glanced at John Jackson.

“Not from an Englishman. But I shall take it from a French fils de pute today,” Makedewa said evenly. She was not sure what was said, but from the way all the men grew silent she suspected it was not polite. She expected John Jackson’s mouth might catch a few bugs the way it gaped open, but she was relieved when the visitor resorted to a wide grin.

“Touche, my friend!” John bellowed. He was a short man, but his deep voice carried, and at the sound of renewed friendship, the other men went back to their rowdy conversation.

She noticed Makedewa nod to Winn before he took her elbow and steered her away from the crowd. She followed him away from the courtyard toward their Long house, pleased when he gently placed his hand on her lower back to guide her.

“Are you well this morning, wife?” he asked once they were out of earshot. His head tilted toward her, and she could see his features soften for a moment.

“Yes, of course. I mean, yes, I am well,” she stammered. Memories of their night sparked her gaze, and she felt her skin flush at the decadent thoughts.

“Then why do your cheeks look like red apples?” he teased. She stopped short with an indignant squeak as he laughed.

“I’m fine! And ye! Ye look like a–like a strutting peacock!” she retorted, elbowing him in the ribs. “And I—”

He stopped her words with his mouth, catching her face gently between his palms. He kissed her soundly until her murmurs ceased, then let his forehead rest against hers.

“I was teasing, chulentet. I only wish to know if you are pleased with me. With being my wife,” he said softly. His tender declaration brought the swell of tears to her eyes as she nodded.

“I am…most pleased,” she answered, not trusting her voice for more than a mere whisper. He smiled.

“Good. I thought of you all morning. I heard nothing of what my brothers spoke. All my thoughts were with you.”

“Yer brother would not be happy to hear that,” she chided him. He shrugged.

“I only care for what you think. Was I not clear on that last night?” he whispered, dappling a series of teasing kisses down her neck. Breathless, she squirmed away and gave him a gentle shove.

“So marriage suits ye!”

John Jackson approached them, a broad smile breaking his thin face. Rebecca stepped back from her husband as Makedewa made an annoyed grunting sound of acknowledgement.

“It does. Is your business ended here, John? I see not why you should stay much longer,” Makedewa answered. His words were said evenly, his voice tempered with restraint. Rebecca noticed the way her husband tensed in the presence of the Englishman. Even half-French and being a friend to Winn, it was not unusual for Makedewa to distrust outsiders. If there was one thing Rebecca knew of her new husband, it was that he did not place his loyalty lightly, and it seemed John Jackson had not met that threshold yet with Makedewa despite the help given to Chief Winn.

“Yes, yes, I shall be leaving. But I have news ye might find interest in. I wasna sure before, but yer the daughter of Robbie Graves, aren’t ye?”

She felt Makedewa close his hand over her wrist. The sting of her dead father’s name fell heavy in the air, spiking through her chest. It had been years since she said her father’s name. Although she thought of her family often, the image of seeing them slaughtered was one that still haunted her dreams. It was easier for them all to avoid that echo of the past.

“He–he was my father. They’re all–they’re all…”

Makedewa interrupted her.

“Her family is gone. Say what you must, but leave them to rest,” Makedewa said.

“I mean no disrespect. ‘Tis only that I have word from yer mother, no harm! She’d be right pleased to know her daughter still lives, she thought ye captured like my sister,” John prattled.

Her throat suddenly felt dry and her vision seemed to blur. Her mother? What was he talking about? She had watched her mother die. She would remember that day as long as she lived.

Rebecca pressed her cheek flat to the floor. She could see her mother’s feet across the room from her hiding spot beneath the bed. Mother’s boots were ankle-high black leather, newly purchased from the trade-ship that arrived earlier in the week. Mother had been so happy to have new boots, and father was pleased to gift them to her. It was the little things that made mother happy; clean linens, serviceable dresses, and new boots were enough to make her swoon.

The door cracked against the wall when it burst open, causing mother to let out a screech.

“Please, we mean ye no harm!” Mother cried. Rebecca saw the boots slide back against the floor toward her hiding spot, the heels leaving black smudges on the wood plank flooring as the woman shuffled backward. A sickening thud came next, followed by mother slumping to the floor in a heap.

Rebecca clamped her hands over her mouth, but it was too late. At the sight of her mother’s lifeless face she uttered a scream. Mother’s eyes lolled back in her head, like a china doll, staring blankly back at her before they fluttered closed. Her mother’s lips made no sound, and Rebecca’s panic burned her throat as she struggled to keep from vomiting.

Two moccasin-clad feet walked toward the damaged door. She closed her eyes and swallowed as the savage left the room. After waiting for what seemed like hours, it was the empty gap of her mother’s open mouth that led her to crack. Her body shook with fright and tears fell free down her cheeks, muffled sobs coming through her closed fist.

It was then that the raider returned. She stifled her cries when she saw the bottoms of his browned legs return to the room. It was the same savage, she was sure of it by the color of his moccasins and the way her mother’s blood splashed his feet. He approached the bed and paused. She tried not to make a sound of relief when the feet shuffled around back the way he had come.

The trill of a whistle pierced the air, and then a hearty laugh. She could not stifle her scream when he stalked back toward the bed and then his body dropped flat to floor. He stayed there, staring at her with his face inches from hers, a grin stretched over his gleeful face. His teeth were bright against his brown skin, white daggers inside his malevolent mouth. When he reached for her, she finally let loose, screaming and thrashing at him with her last vestige of strength.

Her blows only caused him to laugh louder.

“Ye must be mistaken,” Rebecca insisted. “I saw my mother die.”

“She lives still. She was badly injured, mistress, but she lives. Yer ma married Kaleb Tucker, a gentleman, no less. They have a fine new house in Elizabeth City. When I told her I’d see my Indian friends today, I assured her I would send ye word. Would ye like me to carry a message fer ye?”

“You did not tell them where this village lies, did you?” Makedewa interrupted. John shook his head, his throat turning crimson at the accusation.

“Of course not! I only told her I could carry word that might reach her lost daughter. It’s all I can hope fer with my own sister, ye know.”

“She’s alive?” Rebecca whispered. She was glad that Makedewa’s arm slipped around her waist to stop her from falling. Her legs shook and her stomach threatened to dispel her morning meal at the realization her mother still lived.

“Here, hold onto me,” Makedewa murmured. He swept her into his arms in one swift motion, holding her against his chest as if she weighed nothing. She saw her husband cast a glare at the Englishmen.

“I shall be fine,” she said weakly, not surprised when he refused to release her.

“You have upset my wife,” Makedewa growled.

“I–I’m all right, it’s just a shock,” she explained.

“Good day, John,” Makedewa snapped. He turned and stalked away to their Long house, depositing her gently on their bed despite his obvious rancor. When he pressed a cup of water to her lips she gently pushed him away, too breathless to drink as the truth of John’s words settled upon her.

Makedewa’s brows tensed as he lowered his head, avoiding her gaze as if he were afraid to see her. She suspected what fears troubled him, those whispers never spoken of between them.

“You have never sought to return to the English,” he finally said quietly. His palms rested on her knees, yet he remained quite still, even the force of his breathing not enough to move his rigid body.

“Those I love are here,” she replied. She ran her fingers over his head, caressing his ear, then his shoulder, finally pausing to rest on the hollow of his shoulder.

“Your mother lives.”

It hung there between them in the silence. She was not certain if he needed her to deny her English blood, or confirm her place as his wife, and for all of the confusion swelling in her heart she knew not what to say to him.

Her mother was alive. Of course she should go to her mother. But how could she say the words to her husband, when her intention was so much more?

She was not a woman to demand her will be done, and it was an unknown she stepped into when she prepared to make her request. Yes, he was her husband and she would obey him in all matters, but she hoped he would relent of his English hatred long enough to hear her out.

“I–I want to see her. Will ye take me to town?” Although she felt as if the very blood in her veins trembled, she did not stammer when she made her voice heard. After all, this was the man who promised to keep her safe, who promised to love her and honor her above all else for all their days.

“If you ask it of me, I will take you,” he murmured. She placed her palm flat on his cheek, felt the warmth of his skin. His ebony eyes tilted up to meet hers, sending a rush of heat straight down through her belly.

No, her faith was not misplaced. His gaze was steady. His fingers tightened on her knees.

“Thank ye,” she whispered. He did not smile, but she felt his fingers twist into hers on her lap as he nodded.

Makedewa

ELIZABETH TUCKER STOOD behind her husband as they approached. Even shielded by the broad Englishman, Makedewa could see how much his wife resembled her mother. Her hair was pulled back in a severe knot, but a few blond curls fell astray at her ears. She was heavier than Rebecca, her face a bit rounder and her stature somewhat taller than Rebecca’s petite height, yet there was no denying the resemblance. Her pale skin betrayed little of her age except for the crease along her forehead as she surveyed their approach.

Makedewa tightened his grip on his horse and cast a sideways glance at Rebecca as he shifted in his seat. She rode her favorite sorrel mare, but he could see the indecision in her demeanor as well. It had been four years since she had seen her mother, a woman she thought long buried. He cared nothing for what the Englishwoman had endured during that time; he only cared for what it would do to his wife to see her again.

He noticed Kaleb Tucker had a musket propped up against the doorway. It was close enough to reach quickly, and Makedewa suspected it was loaded. John Jackson had been helpful in explaining what to expect when they arrived, and the wiry gunsmith had also carried word of their impending visit. Makedewa was not happy to be indebted to the man and he was loathe to admit sending word was wise; if Makedewa and Rebecca had ventured into Elizabeth City unannounced, their arrival was likely to be greeted with violence. Makedewa was not on friendly terms with the English as Winn had once been. He would never forget how Winn had once served as liaison between the Powhatan and English, or how the settlers had turned on Winn and tried to kill him.

No. He would never forget their treachery. As a boy, or as a man, he would always remember.

Kaleb Tucker broke the silence with a stilted cough.

“’Tis good to see you hale, Rebecca,” Kaleb announced. It seemed a formal declaration, meant both to acknowledge her absence and welcome her arrival. Makedewa dismounted and glanced up at her Rebecca. Her face had been a careful mask as they rode into town, but now he watched it crumble as she looked upon her mother. He helped her down off the mare, his hands firm on her waist. He did not want to let her go.

Her eyes darted from Makedewa, to her mother, and then back to him. He could see the tear in her composure, the hint of uncertainty.

She waited for his approval. A stagnant bile rose in his chest as he nodded. He must be the one she could trust, no matter how this day with her mother turned out.

The corner of her mouth turned up in a smile as she gazed up at him and he could not help but make an amused snort in response. With that exchange, she left his side and went to that of her mother.

As the women embraced amidst tearful sobbing, Kaleb Tucker reached his side. Makedewa thought he looked familiar, more so than the usual English he encountered, and he wondered if they had met before. He was of common height and stature, although he looked healthier and more refined than most of the Englishmen Makedewa was accustomed to. His brown hair was pulled neatly back at his nape in a fanciful blue ribbon, and his attire looked to be more leisurely than serviceable. His skin seemed smooth on his hands, ending in long tapered fingers that bespoke of a gentle life. So he was no laborer, Makedewa thought. John Jackson had been correct when he said Rebecca’s mother married and English gentleman.

“Thank you, sir, for your care. My name is Kaleb Tucker. And you are…?”

“Her husband,” Makedewa answered simply. He was not yet ready to speak his Indian name to the stranger. Although familiar with the way the Tassantassas used given names so freely, he was reluctant to allow them to know his true name. There was still a part of him that feared his soul might be captured if his enemies knew his true name, and until he could know more about Kaleb Tucker it would remain unsaid.

Kaleb nodded, his eyes wary.

“Well, yes, then, of course. John Jackson told us of yer–of what had happened to dear Rebecca,” Kaleb stammered.

Rebecca and her mother linked arms and entered the house. Makedewa glanced briefly at Kaleb and made a low snorting sound, then followed the women.

They would put no walls between him and his wife.

“Why not give them some time, ye surely can see they must speak!” Kaleb exclaimed as Makedewa strode toward the house.

The horses were ground-tied, they would remain where they stood. They could have run off for all he cared. All he knew was that he did not like any of the sounds around him, not the murmur of voices from onlookers who peered curiously at them as they passed by, nor the absence of songbirds and sunshine. It seemed nature had abandoned the settlement the moment the English clawed into the earth; the scent of life was gone in Elizabeth City that had once been called the land of Tsenacomoco. Overrun by the stink of stale sodden tobacco and the closeness of human debris, it was nearly too much for him to take in. As he opened the door to follow them he noticed a puddle of foul liquid below one of the windows, trickling into a narrow gulley behind the rows of houses.

So they polluted the earth and lived in their own filth. How his beautiful wife could have come from vermin such as them, he could not fathom.

He entered the house. Rebecca and her mother sat by the hearth facing each other, hand in hand. He noticed the bible on a stool between them, similar to the one Rebecca had read to him from. It had been a gift, taken from the ruins of Martin’s Hundred after the Great Assault.

Makedewa left Rebecca in the care of Maggie in the cave that day. He knew she needed the comfort of another woman now, after all that had happened to her. Even before Maggie confirmed his suspicion, he knew it. He had seen it in her eyes, as if it were a secret shared only among those who had suffered the same fate. Although it had been many years since he thought on the evil done to him by Nathanial Webb, seeing Rebecca had brought it screaming back like a teeming banshee bent on destruction.

He must be patient; he must be slow. He must take care to show her he meant her no harm. If it took the rest of his life to do so, he would do it, even if it meant someday she only looked on him as a friend. Yet from the first moment he saw her he knew she would always be more to him. No tale could ever prepare him, no story could have made him understand. He loved her from the moment he saw her, and for him, even if unrequited, it was forever.

At loss to do anything useful as Maggie tended Rebecca, he left the campsite near the cave and traveled back to the ruins of Martin’s Hundred.

Yes, it had been his kind that set fire to the houses. It had been his kind that killed the women and children, and he had meant to join them. Only Winn had asked him, as a brother, to help save Finola, and in saving Finola they discovered Maggie was with her. If not for that, Makedewa would have joined the slaughter. He would have struck them down with no more thought than that of satisfaction.

Yet when the girl ran out of the flaming house with her flushed cheeks stained with dirt and her dressed splattered with blood, she looked back at the warrior and screamed. Makedewa heard her scream, he heard the voice behind it, and he could not let her fall. The warrior raced after her, and Makedewa pursued them as if his legs served no purpose other than to follow.

He knew the man he killed; he was Pamukey, and they had shared meals together when Makedewa had visited the tribe. He was called Attemous, and his name meant “dog.” As Makedewa raced after him, he thought the name was most fitting, since only a dog would attack a woman in the spoils of battle. He was thought to be a great warrior among his people, but to Makedewa he was just another man when his blood ran red onto the dirt.

When Makedewa took the man to the ground and ended his life, he moved away from the fallen body, his knife still dripping blood. He looked at Rebecca, lying in Maggie’s arms, and he wanted to shout:

“See? See what I have done for you? For your honor. So that you may have peace. I have slain the man who hurt you!”

Yet instead he said nothing, unable to make his mouth form words when Rebecca stared at him in terror. It had taken Maggie’s urging to convince Rebecca to ride with him away from the burning town, and even then when she collapsed in his arms Makedewa knew it was from stark fear.

So he would bide his time in other ways. He would give her a token of his affection, with no expectation of thanks in return. If only he could make her smile someday, to see the light of happiness chase away the fear in her sweet tawny eyes, it would be enough for him.

He stole back into town after darkness had fallen, and he went to the church. It was one of three buildings left standing; the two others were houses that were mostly unscathed. Yet it was the church that called to him and he thought he would find something to please her there.

When he picked the book up off a long plank table, he knew it was what she needed. Thick bound leather, covered with the hide of some unfortunate animal, it smelled of ink and smoke when he pressed his nose to the pages. Pressed into the cover was the phrase “Holy Bible,” which he recognized from the time he spent at school in Henricus. The binding was intact; it would make a good gift. He searched the church for something more personal to add to his collection, but all he could find were long soft crimson ribbons attached to the books. He carefully tore three of them from the binding, then laid them flat inside the pages of the bible. She could use them for her hair. Surely she would want to tie it back?

He could search the two intact houses for women’s trinkets, but he did not want to give her the tidings of the dead. The English said their God lived forever, so taking a few ribbons from God should not trouble the living.

“Makedewa! Momma, this is my husband,” Rebecca exclaimed. He grimaced at the use of his true name in the presence of the strangers, but nodded politely to the women all the same. He had never explained what names meant to the Paspahegh, so he could not fault Rebecca for that. There was so much for them to speak of, so much about each other they had yet to discover, yet suddenly seeing her with her mother and knowing Kaleb had a loaded musket in arms reach sent a surge of unease through his bones. He hoped what was meant to be a short visit would not sprawl into something more.

Elizabeth Tucker stared boldly at him, giving him no indication that she saw him as anything other than a savage. Yes, he had seen that look before. Rebecca was too deliriously happy to see it and Elizabeth shielded it well, but it was there.

“Thank ye, kind sir, for keeping my daughter safe. I fear we are indebted to ye. Please,” Elizabeth murmured, patting a bench beside them. “Please sit with us. I cannot say I am not troubled that my daughter has married outside the church, ye surely understand that.”

Makedewa tightened his hand over the butt of his knife and remained standing. Rebecca looked at him curiously but did not question him, instead rising up to stand beside him. He let out a breath when she looped her arm through his and he felt the heat of her body close to his.

“So this village ye live in. Ye willna tell me where it is? And I cannot visit ye?” Elizabeth commented, her eyes fastened on Makedewa rather than her daughter.

“Strangers are not welcome there. No, you may not visit,” Makedewa answered. He heard Kaleb close the door behind him, and the sound of the man’s boots as he crossed the floor. Elizabeth kept Makedewa’s gaze for along moment, then obediently rose from her place to fetch a drink for her husband. Rebecca left his side to help her mother, and it was from his wife’s hand that he took the offered ale.

“Are there other English women you keep there? Other captives?” Elizabeth continued. Rebecca made a sharp gasping sound and made to move, but Makedewa placed his hand on her wrist. It was only a gentle reminder, but enough to keep her steady.

“My wife was never a captive. The choice is hers,” he answered. He studied the woman over the brim of the pewter cup. At first he had thought Rebecca looked like her mother, yet as they spent more time together he decided that was not the case. Rebecca was everything light and honest; this Englishwoman might share his wife’s riotous blond hair and creamy pale skin, but that was where the resemblance ended. At the revelation of clear disgust in Elizabeth’s gaze, he suddenly felt less threatened by Kaleb with his musket propped against the doorjamb.

“You say she is not a prisoner, when so many other English women are still missing? Yet it was your kind that brought evil upon us. I think my daughter had no choice in the matter.”

“Wife!” Kaleb snapped. His voice was sharp and Elizabeth immediately ducked her eyes. Well, there was some fire in the woman. For now it was kept in check by her English husband.

Makedewa broke the silence. The tension was thick and he had no urge to drive it further. He had meant only to see Rebecca safely for a visit and then return to show Winn the way to the river plantation. Rebecca knew the plan when they set out that day, so he was assured she would not argue.

“Kaleb, I think my wife needs to spend some time with her mother. I have duties to tend to and will return. I would be grateful for you to keep Rebecca until I return. Can I trouble you for some water for my horse?”

“Of course, friend. I shall show ye the way,” Kaleb agreed.

“Ye do not have to leave,” Rebecca murmured. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, her lower lip stained pink from bite of her teeth into her flesh. He brushed his fingers along her jaw. Although he longed to pull her into his arms, he was not a man to display his need so boldly, so a gentle touch between them would have to be enough to convey his heart’s desire.

“Do not fear. I will return for you,” he said softly. She smiled and nodded. He left her with her mother and joined Kaleb outside.

Makedewa occupied himself with tying Rebecca’s horse to the corral and watering the animals. He left his traveling bag and belongings in Rebecca’s care, knowing he would not be gone long. The shadow of unease nipped at his skin, like pin pricks from an unseen spirit, and he could not shake the sense of worry that plagued him. Perhaps it was the intended raid on the river plantation where Benjamin was held; or more likely it was the knowledge he was leaving his wife in the care of Englishmen. It had not been his doing. Rebecca had insisted she would visit with her mother and then when Makedewa returned for her they would leave together. Makedewa sought to give her voice in matters between them, yet he could only hope that this venture had not been a mistake.

He saw her wave from the doorway as he rode away and he lifted his chin in return. As he galloped toward the river he brushed away the twinges of doubt.

After all, it was only a few hours apart.

He did not see Winn and the others until he rode up into their midst. Although he sensed they were nearby, the Norse were a canny bunch and were skilled at lying in wait. Makedewa jumped down off his horse and scowled when an arrow pierced the air and burrowed into the ground only a few inches away.

It was Chetan’s arrow, and he knew his brother meant to miss.

“Waste no more on me, kemata tehpahta!” Makedewa sniped. He kneeled down beside the others, giving Chetan a shove in the process.

“You are as loud as a bear! Does marriage make you clumsy?” Chetan taunted him. Winn made a hissing sound at them.

“Enough! Look, they have dozens of men. Even English soldiers, like you said. I think we have plan,” Winn answered. The teasing guffaws stopped and all ears turned to the Chief. At Winn’s side, Erich pointed through the tall grass toward the plantation. The Norse were well hidden in the brush along the river tree line, with an unobstructed view of the barn and the main house. It did not look any different than when Makedewa had followed Sturlsson’s men there, but it certainly had many more people milling about.

Makedewa glanced around at the gathered Norse. They did not have enough men for a full on assault, and he could see Winn meet his gaze.

“No,” Winn said. “We will bring them out, we will confuse them. Cormaic and Hamish will set the barn on fire. When the English scatter, we will go in. Then we will find Benjamin.”

Makedewa felt his skin tingle and fear gripped his chest. They had not planned such a rouse; Rebecca was still in town, and such a commotion would make it much more dangerous for him to retrieve her.

“I need you to show me where to find him,” Winn continued. Makedewa glared at his brother.

“This is not what we planned!” he replied.

Winn nodded in agreement but his gaze was fierce. There would be no argument.

“I know. But it must be this way. I will not risk our men for this when we know not what we face. The men have already left to start the fire, they should return here soon.”

Makedewa noted Erich looking frantically in the direction of the barn, and he saw the older man’s shoulders relax when the shrouded forms of two hulking men ran through the low brush toward them. Their errand had been successful, the large barn erupting into a fiery blaze within moments of their return. Three groups of men set off in different directions, Makedewa assumed to start a series of smaller fires to divide the English resources. The plan was a brilliant one, save the unnerving fact that it would keep Makedewa there much longer than he anticipated. All he could hope for was to find Benjamin quickly, or risk being caught when he returned to retrieve Rebecca.

“Benjamin was held in the far room, the one closest to the smokehouse. That is the only place to look if he does not leave the house,” Makedewa offered.

Perhaps it was the catch in his voice, or the plea of one man’s heart, but it was then that Winn turned to him with a frown. Something unspoken occurred between Winn and Chetan, a swift nod, an acknowledgement of sorts, and suddenly Makedewa knew his brothers felt his pain.

“Go fetch your woman,” Winn commanded. “Meet us at the river. Ride fast, brother.”

Makedewa closed his eyes and bowed his head. He felt Chetan put a hand on his shoulder, and Winn touched his fisted knuckles to his chest.

Moments later he rode low against the neck of his horse, galloping down the riverbank back toward town.

It was by habit that he crept quietly up upon the house. He had given them no cause for alarm, yet even he knew his kind were always viewed with suspicion. With the knowledge of the fire roaring downstream at the plantation he knew it was only a matter of time before the townsfolk were roused, and he planned to have his wife far away from the melee when it ensued.

He made to go to the door when suddenly it opened. A glimmer of light spilled out from the portal and he could hear the sounds of laughter inside. He felt an insatiable pull to take his wife far from the English town, one that would not be stemmed until he held her safely in his arms again. When he saw a hooded figure with a flash of blond curls poking from beneath her cloak he nearly met her halfway, but when he saw the bundle in her arms he stopped cold.

She looked toward the glass window for a moment, as if indecisive. It was only a brief pause before she placed the bundle of items on the ground beside the door. He waited until she went back inside before he approached, his chest clenching tight into a relentless spasm when he realized what she left.

On the ground lay his spare moccasins.

His carrying sack.

His tunic and vest.

The groan from deep in his belly was involuntary, a roar of denial that shook him to the bones. He grabbed the door handle to rush after her, yet then dropped it and jumped back as if burned. Thrusting his hands through his hair, he stalked through the courtyard away from the house, back to where his horse stood patiently ground-tied. The horse made a soft snorting sound at his approach, pacing in place at the presence of his master.

“Not yet, friend,” he muttered to the animal.

How had this happened? He left his wife in the care of her kin for a few hours, and he returned to be cast out?

She knew what it meant. She did it with her own hands, of her own…choice.

Perhaps she could not face him with the truth?

He took his hand axe from where it lay sheathed on the neck of his horse and stalked back to the house.

He watched them through the thick glass window as they took their evening meal. It had been a long time since he had dined in the house of an Englishman, yet he could still recall with the ache of youthful innocence how devious such people could be.

Untrustworthy.

Liars.

Murderers.

They stood for everything he hated. And they stood between him and his wife. Laughing, passing bread, drinking sweet port as if they had no care in the world other than to enjoy the decadence littered in front of them.

He flexed his fingers against the handle of his axe. He would slaughter them all. Every. Single. Englishman.

No man would keep him from his wife.

Laughter bubbled through the glass panes, catching his attention before he stepped away from the window. He should not let their rituals sway him, nor let their amusement stem his hatred. Yet he recognized the voice, and when he peered into the room he could see her.

Rebecca stood laughing with her toddler step-brother perched in her arms. The child grabbed for one of her golden curls, setting her off into a fit of giggles as she swung around to avoid him. Rebecca’s mother watched them, her weathered face betraying her joy. Makedewa saw the older woman glance up at Kaleb Tucker, and he patted her shoulder as if to ease her worry.

Rebecca looked radiant.

He sank down against the slat house to rest on his heels, his heart racing in preparation for what he must do.

Break in. Kill anyone who challenged him. Retrieve his woman.

It seemed so simple as he stole into town, yet now, staring at her through the window, suddenly he was not so sure. She was his wife, his heart. She belonged with him, she had pledged her soul to his. It was not a vow one broke, not in his world or any other.

A memory of their wedding night haunted him, and he could not deny it tore through his resolve.

“Look here, into my eyes. See how much I love you. I will always honor you,” he murmured. “And I will always serve you.”

Yes, he had made her promises. Promises he meant to keep.

The axe slid from his grip to rest against his thigh. His heart pounded near breaking with the knowledge of what he meant to do. Before that moment he thought he knew what it was to love a woman. He felt secure in his vow, sure of where it would lead them. Yet it took sitting on his heels in the dirt for the blow to stun him, so much so that he rocked back with a low coarse groan. If he ever knew what love was, then his illusion of it fell shattered like shards at his feet at the sight of her happy face.

She was happy with her family. She was happy with the English. And she had put out his belongings. She had made her choice.

He had told her once she always had a choice. It had been an easy vow to give when he was sure he knew what her answer would be. Now, as he stood up, sheathing his axe at his waist, the true meaning of those words burned through him. He could not take her from her happiness, no matter what the cost. It was her choice.

The ache in his chest was foreign, nothing that he had ever encountered. Even in the darkest hours of his life, even in the dank place where Nathanial Webb imprisoned him, he had never felt such a tearing. It was as if his soul pulled away from his body, seeking another place to shelter it. He suspected the beaten thing meant to stay with Rebecca, when he honored her wish to stay with her family and left her forever.

After all, he had pledged to serve her. To his benefit or not, he knew he must do so. If he was not man enough to keep that promise, then all he had asked of her and all they had meant to each other was lost.

His limbs were numb as he mounted up, but his horse knew the way.

Benjamin

SMOKE.

Funny, he did not recall leaving a fire burning in the hearth. In fact, his last thought before drifting off to sleep was that he would need to share the quilt with the tiny lass nestled in his arms.

Most definitely smoke.

The window was cracked open, and when Benjamin sat up he could see the thick haze misting in through the window. Something burned outside in the yard, and by the scent of burnt tobacco he could only guess it was the storage barn.

He nudged Jora, who did not stir with the gentle gesture. With a sigh he pulled on his braies, running his hands through his hair. He had no idea how to proceed with the situation he found himself in, and he suspected Jora was just as befuddled as he was.

A fine pair they would make, he thought, shaking his head.

As he shoved on his boots and fastened his belt the door opened wide.

“Ah, well. I suppose a wedding is in order then, aye?” Agnarr smirked. He entered the room without pause, his eyes roving first over Jora lying on the bed, then flickering back to Benjamin with a salacious grin.

“I’ll have ye close that door, with ye on the other side of it,” Benjamin said. He tried to temper his tone, but the menace came through as if he shouted a threat. No, he was not yet ready to challenge Agnarr, but neither would he let the man shame Jora any further.

For a tense moment Agnarr stood very still. Benjamin slid his knife into his belt as they surveyed each other. He tried to betray no relief when Agnarr’s face broke into a wide grin and he muttered a few obscenities under his breath before he turned on his heel and left. It was a small battle, but one that had suddenly become important to him: Jora was under his protection now, and Benjamin would not let Agnarr use her for whatever malicious purpose he concocted.

“So your spine shows itself,” Agnarr taunted him. Before Benjamin could reply Agnarr waved him off. “A discussion for another time, friend. I fear we have bigger problems to address, what with my barn on fire.”

Benjamin followed him outside. The barn was ablaze, the roof engulfed in flames. Reinn shouted orders to men, who were heaving a line of water filled buckets from the well in a most inefficient manner. The splashes they sent onto the fire would not quell a spark, let alone a full blaze, and the situation was rapidly swinging out of control.

Agnarr joined Reinn and made quick orders to abandon the barn. Reinn was only too happy to oblige, taking a half-dozen men to see to one of the smaller storehouse fires. The reasoning was sound. The main storage barn was beyond salvage, yet they might make headway with one of the smaller fires.

Benjamin noted a small band of English soldiers ride into the yard who took orders from Agnarr and then split up to spread their efforts. Benjamin joined another group of men to fight one of the smaller fires, leaving Agnarr standing in the middle of the courtyard. For a man losing a large amount of money he seemed quite calm, surveying the damage with his hand knotted under his chin, elbow resting on a crossed forearm.

When they arrived at the small outpost on the dock it was only the roof gone smoldering, so he was sure they could stem the damage done. If there was too much lost, Agnarr might have need to keep him and Jora at the plantation, and that was one scenario Benjamin did not want to consider. The more he learned about Agnarr, either from the man’s own mouth or slips of tongue from the others, he knew enough to want to put distance between them.

Yes, it would be wise to let the man believe they were allies, even business partners. It was the only way to discover what danger he posed to his kin, and now, it meant keeping Jora safe as well.

As men worked on opening the doors to the outpost, Benjamin ducked away toward the river to douse his clothes in water before he entered the flaming building. Smoke choked his lungs, the thick scent of the burnt tobacco leaves clinging to his skin and hair despite the dunking. As he shook the water out from his hair he heard the sound of footsteps behind him.

“Wet your clothes, men, it might help,” he called out.

He was puzzled at the bemused chuckle in response. He ran his hand over his wet hair and raised his head.

If not for the time they had spent in close quarters Benjamin might not have recognized them, but when they spoke throaty Norse between themselves he knew them instantly. Faces covered in mud, Cormaic and Erich each grabbed one of his arms and hauled him up out of the water.

“I say we clout ’em,” Cormaic announced.

“Nay! He lost his wits the last time, aye? Bind him, I say!” Erich answered, eying him levelly. Benjamin glared up at him.

“You’re a bunch of fools! Get out of here, have ye no sense?” he shouted, struggling to free himself from the two burly Norsemen.

“Well, clout him then!” Erich said with a sigh, shaking his head. “The damn fool doesna know when he’s been rescued!”

“Enough!”

The men became still as Winn approached. Swinging his bryntroll up behind his back into the harness, he stalked toward them with the ire of a disgruntled war chief on his face.

“Go. Back to the woods.”

The Norse obeyed without further argument, gathering Benjamin up and dragging him toward the wood line. Winn trailed behind them, pacing with a backward glance to ensure they were not followed. At the edge of the clearing Benjamin finally broke free from Cormaic and Erich, twisting out of their grips to confront his brother.

Whatever retrieval Winn had in mind, Benjamin could take no part of it. Agnarr’s men would follow them, there would be no escape, and if they were followed to the village all would be lost. Benjamin still did not know the full intent of what Agnarr might do with a blooded MacMhaolian, but he knew as well that he was not willing to risk the lives of those he loved to find out.

“No!” Benjamin shouted. “Leave me! Go on with ye, I willna join ye!”

Winn turned to face him, and it was then that the power of their bond betrayed them both. Benjamin lowered his head, resting his hands on his knees as he gasped for air. When he raised his eyes, he could see his brother’s fists clenched at his sides. Yes, he could see it clearly now. They both remembered their vow, given on the day their father died.

“The power of time travel must remain our secret, and ye are sworn to protect it. Put aside yer quarrels, for the good of your people. I left my family, and all those I loved, to see it safe. Do not make it for nothing. Keep them close, see that they live on. I was born to protect them, and so are ye. I ask ye both, as my sons, to make it so.”

“Father–” Benjamin said. Marcus shook his head.

“No. Give me yer oath, as protectors of our blood. Give me yer oath!”

The choked demand strained Marcus, and he fell back onto the furs. Winn took his father’s hand and bowed his head to him.

“I give it to you, father,” Winn said. Marcus clenched his hand.

“As do I,” Benjamin agreed.

Marcus had died because of Benjamin’s mistake. Benjamin had done unforgivable things in his life. Stealing his brother’s wife, letting her believe Winn dead. Failing to protect his father when Marcus needed it most. It was too much for any many to carry within. Winn had every reason to take vengeance, yet had failed to do so. To Benjamin, death would have been a welcome reprieve. Facing the truth of what he had done was much worse, and living in the light of their forgiveness was even more torturous.

This was the only way he could go on. If he must live, if he must keep breathing air, he would do it apart from them. This is how he could honor those he loved–by staying away.

“Go,” he said again, hoping that with the final plea they would honor it. “Hurry,” he choked.

“Brother, come home,” Winn said, his voice hoarse.

“This. Is. My home,” he answered. “I can never return to the village.”

Benjamin straightened up to face his brother.

“I will not release you from your vow. Not now. Not ever,” Winn said, his voice so faint that his words fell only on Benjamin’s ears. Benjamin nodded. He expected no less from his brother.

“I do not ask it of ye, my Chief,” Benjamin replied. Winn’s eyes flickered, and Benjamin saw the muscles of his throat tighten. “I will honor the vow I made to ye and yours until I take my last breath. I made that promise to our father. I will keep it. This is how I must keep my word. This is how we must leave it.”

Winn leaned in and snatched Benjamin with two fists, his fingers twisting in his collar. Benjamin did not fight him. He closed his hands over his brother’s wrists. They said nothing for what seemed hours, and Benjamin knew the sight of his brother’s broken gaze would stay with him forever. Winn knew. He understood what must happen. Those berserker blue eyes saw through him, to the very depths of his broken soul, and it was Benjamin’s only consolation that he was assured Winn knew his true heart.

“So when we next meet, we meet as enemies?” Winn said, his voice rising to a shout meant for the ears of all who listened. Benjamin heard the rustle of weapons drawn behind them and the murmur of men preparing to fight.

“So we shall, brother,” Benjamin replied. He fought to make the words audible to all, finding the last echo of strength in the honor of what he meant to do. It was safer for them all this way. Only Winn could know his true purpose, or they would all be in danger. “The next Norseman I see will be a dead one,” Benjamin added. An empty promise in truth, but enough of one to cause a collective gasp among the Norse.

Winn straightened his back and loosened his fingers, his hands falling away from Benjamin. Benjamin stepped away from his brother. The day their father died would haunt him for all his days, but as he watched his only brother turn his back on him he felt cause to compare that pain.

Yes, he thought, it does feel like that. Like a stake had been run through his belly, and he was slowly bleeding out what was left of his honor.

So be it. If it was only the cost of his honor that would keep his kin safe, then they could have it.

As the Norsemen faded away into the woods as if they had only been a whispered myth instead of flesh and blood warriors, Benjamin heard the pounding of hooves and the shouts of soldiers approach. It was Agnarr’s loyal battalion, armed Englishmen ready to pursue any threat.

“Are the savages far gone, man?” they asked.

“Aye. No sign of them. We’ll go back to town, lest they double back while the dock sits unprotected,” Benjamin answered. One of the soldiers offered him a leg up, and he mounted behind him.

As they galloped away back toward Elizabeth City and Agnarr’s estate, Benjamin did not look back.

No. He would never look back.

Rebecca

SHE WOKE TO the sound of the clock chiming on the mantle. Unfamiliar as it was, the deep twang startled her, yet she was grateful for the help in waking. She had not meant to doze off, sure that Makedewa would return for her before the night grew too late, but the freely flowing rum had been too much for one unaccustomed to such spirits. It had been easy to enjoy the laughter of her young half-brother and sit with the mother she thought long lost. Rebecca silently cursed herself for falling asleep as she rose from the trundle bed and went to the window.

Still no sign of her husband.

Her visit with her mother and new step-father had been a pleasant one. Rebecca surprised even herself by putting her mother firmly in place.

“But he’s a–a heathen! What will people think?” Elizabeth sputtered once Makedewa was out of earshot.

“He is my husband. I choose him, mother. People here in town can think whatever they want, I care not.”

“You could still find a good English husband. An Indian marriage is not a real marriage, in any case.”

“It is to me. And if you say that again, why I’ll–I’ll let my husband scalp ye!” Even as the words left her lips, she could not believe she uttered such a hateful thing to her own mother. After an uproar of tears between the two of them, they mended fences, and they stopped speaking of Makedewa entirely.

Now that her visit had come to an end, Rebecca was more than ready to return home. Home. With Makedewa.

“Why are ye awake, child?” Elizabeth said softly. Rebecca smiled at her mother. Elizabeth wore a plain white night rail, buttoned up securely to her neck. Rebecca wondered with a secret grin what her mother would think of her sleeping without a stitch on, snuggled deep in the arms of her warrior husband.

Yes, things had changed between them, and they could never return to what had once been. Not that Rebecca had any intention of doing so.

“I thought my husband would return sooner,” she admitted. She did not mention his name, hoping to stem an argument.

“Well, ye canna wait here all night. Sleep, I’m sure we shall see him in the morn.”

Rebecca nodded in agreement, and her mother turned back toward the bedroom. Needing to feel the breath of air on her skin, Rebecca took a moment to open the front door. Her tired eyes searched the horizon for any sign of her wayward husband, but there was none to be found. With two clean bare feet she stepped out onto the dirt, shuffling along to the edge of the path where it turned to grass.

“Rebecca? Come in here at once!”

She turned back to her mother, who was hanging from the doorway, her voice filled with stark panic.

“What is it, mama?” she replied. The words poured forth before she saw the pile on the ground, sitting next to the door. Somehow she had missed it when she ambled outside, but there was no mistaking it now.

It was Makedewa’s belongings, set out next to the door.

“Mother,” she said, her voice rising into a shrill squeal despite her wish to curb it. “Who put my husband’s things outside? Who put them there?” she shrieked. “He thinks I cast him out! How dare ye? Oh, I could–I could hate ye if ye were not my mother!”

Her mother burst into tears, and the resultant screaming between the two women brought Kaleb running outside. In the adjoining houses, candles flickered at windows, and Rebecca heard a door open at the neighbor’s house. There was no hiding such a ruckus in the middle of town.

“I’m leaving!” Rebecca shouted. Her anger spilled over into frustrated tears as she shoved her few belongings into Makedewa’s carry sack. She pulled her ermine-lined cape over her shoulders and ran to the corral where she tossed the bag over her horse’s back.

“Please, no! Daughter, please, it is better this way, ye must see–” Elizabeth pleaded, her round face streaked with tears.

“No, Mama. I see it was a mistake to come here. That is all I see,” she shot back. The voice came from somewhere she did not recognize, a shadow of the former voice she would have spoken to her mother with. Instead the strength of her husband filled her, his devotion, his promise.

That is what she would hold onto as she traveled alone back home to find her husband.

She was not skilled at tracking, but when she realized someone followed her she had one guess at who it was. His mount plodded through the brush with the grace of a plow horse, and her new step-father was not a much better rider to boot.

“Kaleb, ye can go back. I’m going home, and ye cannot go with me,” she called out sweetly. “My menfolk do not take kindly to strangers. I fear the worst if ye persist.”

He urged his unruly mount forward to ride alongside her.

“Ye cannot travel alone, and at night, no less. It’s nay safe and ye know it,” Kaleb sighed. His round dark eyes darted beyond her shoulder, then he twisted to look behind them.

“It’s safe enough,” she muttered. How was she going to lose him? He could accompany her perhaps to the meadow, but beyond that he could go no further. There was a narrow trail well hidden that led into the mountains where the village lay, but she could not risk that he might find it after she left him. Her urge to return home and find her husband burned stronger than her self-preservation, however, but she was reluctant to admit striking off in the middle of the night was not the most intelligent of ideas.

Good Lord. She was acting like a senseless ninny.

She prayed it would turn out better than the forethought she put into it.

“I’ll see ye there, and then I’ll leave. I have no quarrel with the savages,” Kaleb commented. She turned a squinted eye to him. Tall and fairly refined in his quiet bulky way, he seemed out of place in the dense heart of the woods. It amused her that he had such a narrow view of the people she lived with, a view she was well aware most settlers shared, but it was one that she thought needed mending.

She knew quite well, better than most, what the Powhatans had done during the Massacre. Yet she also knew that not all men were alike, and the man she married was an honorable one.

“They’re men, just like ye, nothing more,” she replied tartly.

“Ye married an Indian, call it what ye will. But to the English folk, yer nothing more than a savage yerself now. Surely ye know that, girl. So it’s truly the life ye choose?”

“It is.”

They rode in silence for a few minutes. Rebecca was too consumed with irritation to notice the rustle in the trees beyond them, or the shadows creeping up behind the swinging tails of their horses.

“I knew yer husband. He was there when I was a teacher at Henricus,” Kaleb commented. The words seemed intended for casual conversation, but at the mention of the time when Makedewa had endured unspeakable horrors she pulled her horse into a sliding stop.

“At Henricus? The surely you knew Master Webb?” she whispered, her voice trailing off as he nodded.

“I was an apprentice teacher to him. Nathanial Webb…well, he wasna the kind of man I’d lend my animals to, if one had choice in the matter.”

“I think ye owe an explanation…” her voice slowed as shadows moved from the brush onto the trail. One in front of them, and with a quick glance she noted one behind them.

These were not Indians that she knew. Not that she knew very many, but there had been Nansemond visitors to the village that she had grown quite friendly with. With the little knowledge she held, she was certain these were not friends of her husband, and by the looks of their disjointed clothing and sparse weapons, she suspected they might be a band of stragglers that Makedewa mentioned roamed near town.

The one in front wore a scalp-lock braid knotted behind his left ear, his lean body littered with scars. He wore copper bands on his upper arms, thick battered metal like the ones Makedewa used to wear. Maggie told her he sold them to buy her red ribbons for her hair, what now seemed so many years ago.

The man who flanked them was made of the same ilk, another lean warrior with a plucked scalp. This one wore a simple breechcloth and leggings, and his flesh was decorated with an array of tattoos. Even his face bore ink, causing his lips to seem in a perpetual scowl.

“Hello,” Rebecca stammered. She could not think of a single Paspahegh word to say. By the looks of the strangers, it would not have stirred them anyway.

“English?” The first brave questioned. He moved forward and took hold of her horse’s bridle, staring up at her with a curious expression on his face.

“Yes! Yes, we’re English,” Kaleb agreed. Rebecca snapped her head back toward him with a scowl.

“No! I’m not English!” she shouted.

The man behind them laughed, and before she could respond he dragged her down off her horse. Kaleb swung his horse around in a circle to avoid seeking hands, but his attempt ended when the man who held her placed a knife to her throat.

Kaleb slowly dismounted, his eyes locked on the man who held her. She closed her eyes briefly as the blade pressed into her neck, feeling the coldness of the metal like a dip of rainwater on her flesh. He picked up a stray curl from the riotous mop on her head and nodded, grinning to himself.

“English,” he laughed.

Her scream was stifled by his hand covering her mouth. She fumbled for the knife at her belt. No. She would not be taken again. If it meant her life, she would not. She was the wife of a warrior and she would not yield.

“My English. Mine.”

Makedewa?

It was Makedewa’s voice, making claim.

He had not abandoned her!

Her eyes flew open despite the hand covering her face. She bit down hard on the fingers, and with every ounce of strength she possessed she twisted in his arms, grabbing a firm hold on the butt of her knife. She flailed once and slashed his flank, and she saw her abductor’s eyes widen at the sight of her knife. When he snatched her wrist and shoved her to her knees, she was sure she would feel the sting of the knife across her throat, yet it did not come.

The next vision she saw was that of Makedewa, wrestling with the man on the ground. The two bodies writhed as if in an ancient dance, grasping for control when the upper hand meant the end of a life. She felt Kaleb move to her side and take her arm but she refused to be swayed, her eyes locked on the battle before her.

“Walk to the spirit world in shame, lenutet,” Makedewa whispered as he lowered the man to the ground. It almost seemed a lover’s embrace, the way he cradled the man in his arms as he set him against the earth, his eyes locked with those of the dying man as the stranger took his last breath. He made a choking sound, and a trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. His eyes lolled back into his head like a lifeless doll and Makedewa stood up.

His gaze fell first on the second would-be assailant, and Rebecca was relieved to see the other man take off at a run into the forest.

Her husband turned to her, his face an unusual pallor. She could see the pain in his gaze, but she could not see a wound.

“Take her,” he said curtly, with any trace of care chased from his gaze. She shook her head as the men conversed as if she was nothing, as if her word held no power.

“We’ll go back to town, she’ll be safe there,” Kaleb agreed.

“Good. I will follow you to the palisades, but I will go no further.” Makedewa spit his last command and then turned away from her. He pulled his knife from the body of the fallen man and wiped it off on the man’s leggings.

“I’m not going back there,” she whispered. As she gained more courage, her voice echoed her resolve and it was near shouting when she added, “I’m going home. With you.”

He turned to face her, and to her chagrin he dropped to one knee with his head bent down.

“What are ye doing?” she asked.

“I ask to speak in private with a woman who is no longer my wife. If you wish, then have Kaleb stay, but I ask to speak between us.”

“Of course,” Kaleb muttered. He gathered his horse and gave them a private space of about ten feet, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched the exchange. Too shocked to protest, Rebecca kneeled down beside him and touched his face.

He did not pull away. Instead, he turned his cheek toward her palm and rested it there, closing his eyes.

“Ye don’t understand,” she murmured. He shook his head, opening his eyes to meet her gaze. Stark brown orbs, rounded and soft, a touch of dampness glazed over his pupils.

“If you wish to keep the house we shared, it is yours. I thought–I thought I could stay near, to watch over you, but I will not stay in the village. You will always have…my protection.”

“Is that all I have?” she whispered, her heart feeling as if it stopped beating within her chest at the pain he suffered. It was what she would suffer if she thought he no longer loved her.

“You have that. Always,” he replied.

“I will have more from ye. All of it.”

He raised an eyebrow, his mouth set in a twisted line.

“Then take it all, chulentet,” he said softly. “For all I have is yours.”

She leaned forward, her eyes boring into his, and placed her lips very softly against his. She thought he would explode with passion, but instead he lowered his forehead to hers and rested it there, heavy upon her.

“I love ye, husband. My mother did me a grave betrayal, she put yer moccasins outside. It was not I, because I love ye so. I’m so sorry,” she told him, choking back tears as he gripped her harder.

His hands slid down to her neck, and his head fell down onto her shoulder.

“That brings me joy wife, and I would show you how much…if I could just take another breath …” he groaned. He slid further down her body, his hands falling limp as he lost his grip on her and collapsed.

“Oh, God, Kaleb, help!” she screamed.

Blood bubbled from a wound under his right arm. It was high up on his chest, and when she pressed her ear to his skin she could hear it make a hissing sound.

Makedewa

HE FELT A stabbing in his chest with each jarring motion of the horse, and by the time he recognized where they were he was near to darkness. It seemed easier than staying awake, and for someone who had rarely taken an easy path that was a startling assumption to make. Yet with each breath, each tiny shift of his body, the pain came back, as if she took a dagger to his heart with the image of the sweet face he so loved upon it.

He moaned when someone dragged him down off the horse. His nose grazed the mane of the animal, bring a snort from the horse and a groan from Makedewa’s lips.

Did any of it matter now? Of course there was a wound. He had felt the warrior’s knife pierce his flesh, felt it bury deep into his side before he killed the man. Yet until Makedewa kneeled at her feet he did not feel it, as if he needed her words to drive it truly home.

“I will have more from ye. All of it,” she had said.

He raised an eyebrow, his mouth set in a twisted line. So she had become greedy in the short time with her English kin? Well, he would gladly give it to her. He would carve his beating heart from his chest and hand it to her, if that is what she asked of him. After all, it served no purpose if she was no longer his wife.

“Then take it all, chulentet,” he said softly. “For all I have is yours.”

“Maggie, get Maggie!” he heard someone say. He wished to speak, to tell them Maggie was not who he wanted at his side as he took his last breath.

Even if she was not his, even if she cast him out, it was Rebecca he wanted there when his heart stopped its fight. If only he could raise his hand, if only he could make his mouth form words…

“Please!”

It was Rebecca’s voice then, and he felt comfort that she was near. He tried to move his left arm, the one undamaged. Wasn’t the wound to his right side? Then why would his body not obey? It was only an arm, only one limb. He still had one good arm to touch her with.

“Do not move, husband,” she demanded. “Stay still, ye stubborn lout!”

He smiled at her oath. Although he did not wish her distress, at least that meant she had some care for him. He had never heard her use foul language in all the years they had known each other.

“Winn?” Maggie whispered.

“I will do it,” Winn said. So his brother was near as well, as it should be. He hoped Chetan was there to show him to the spirit world. He would be very angry at them if his spirit should wander.

He felt her fingers twist into those of his good left hand. He thought he squeezed them, but he was not certain until he heard her let out a sob and then he instantly regretted it. He could not raise his limbs to comfort her. He did not want her to cry for him.

A baby squealed. It was a hearty bellow from a robust babe. He recalled Winn saying what a plump greedy fellow Young Dagr was growing into. He was the only newborn in the village; it could be no other than the cry of the blooded MacMhaolian.

Suddenly a warmth washed over him. He heard the voices fade to murmurs, and the scent of blood filled his dried nostrils. Yes, it was unmistakable, the scent of death. Or was it the aroma of life? His chest felt heavy, as if it meant to burst free from his body, and with one sweeping whoosh he felt air rush into his broken lungs. He cried out when his back arched and the fire left him, replaced by a gentle wave of mist that settled him softly back onto the pallet. Like a mischievous tingle of life it embraced him, dancing around him, holding him within the sweetness that was living. He felt it trickle away and he felt bereaved of it.

“Come back,” he whispered. A resultant chucked erupted around him, and then the images began to slowly focus in his vision.

“Ye canna keep them, lad,” Gwen laughed.

“Rebecca?” he replied. More laughter.

“I’m here, husband,” she whispered. He brushed the smeared dirt and tears from her cheek. He recalled it all now, and he felt shame for doubting her. She smiled and kissed his fingers, not budging when Gwen tried to shove her aside to make him drink.

Chetan stood next to Winn at his bedside, and they both smiled. Winn’s arms were wrapped firmly around Maggie’s waist, and in her arms she clutched Young Dagr. When Makedewa met the boy’s gaze, the infant stared calmly back as if he knew his exalted blood had saved a life. The boy had a fresh bandage on his heel.

Something had happened to him, beyond the scope of sense or reason. It was nothing that could be explained by legend or lore, nor by the Great Creator or God himself. It was simply the heart of a child, the blood of an ancient one, given freely by those who guarded him.

With his wife clutching his hand and his brothers at his side, suddenly he knew he had everything to live for. He had everything to fight for, everything to protect. And it was more than any man could ask for in one meager lifetime.

“Thank you,” he said softly. He met Maggie’s gaze, and she smiled back.

When Gwen gave him the elixir to ease the ache in his healing body, it also brought him a short measure of sleep. The irony of waking in the Northern Hall was not lost on him; the Noroanveror Skali was the place they had taken Marcus when they knew his time was short. He supposed it was only natural to bring him there when they knew his wound was fatal, and fatal it would have been but for the blood of his brother’s son.

The others did not notice him rouse as they sat drinking mead around the long table, too caught up in their argument to see him wake. It was the vehement disagreement that stirred him from slumber, so loud he was surprised the women were not cackling at the men like hens over it.

“Kaleb saved my brother’s life by bringing him here,” Winn announced.

A chorus of dissention rose like a rumble through the older men, especially Erich. Makedewa could pick out his seething grunt amongst the others with ease.

“The lass saved yer brother. The Englishman would have run. He’s a coward, and now he knows too much,” Erich answered. Although others voiced their support of Erich, he was the only one who would openly voice his opposition to Winn. Makedewa expected Cormaic to support his father and he was almost disappointed when he did not. Cormaic stood amongst the men to make his point.

“We canna kill him. He’s done no wrong. It was our fault he saw what he saw, we shoulda thought to keep him out. But see it, he did, and now he knows what Young Dagr is. Let it rest on us to protect our own, as it always has. We are no better than the English if we kill him for crimes he has not yet committed.” Cormaic said. It was a wise speech, more than was usual for Cormaic, and Makedewa wondered if age and time had not given him more heart and brain than his brawn. If so, he would serve Winn well. Chief Winn needed men to challenge him, to make him think when there was so much at stake.

Until Young Dagr’s blood had saved his life, Makedewa had not realized how much they had to lose. It was worth all of them to protect it, yet with that responsibility a great patience was needed. They needed a level head, a calm disposition, the strength to take care and step back before one stepped into battle.

Makedewa sat up from the fur covered pallet.

“Cormaic is right. Let him go. He will not share our secret. I shall take it on myself to stand for him.”

His muscles ached on the side where he had taken the blade, but when he stretched his shoulders back and raised his arms above his head they loosened quite nicely. He ached as if he had slumbered for days, not a few hours, and his skin prickled at the surge of sensation that washed over his flesh. He felt renewed. Alive. And he owed that in part to Kaleb Tucker.

“If Makedewa stands for him, then I shall let no man bring him harm,” Winn said. “The Englishman will have my protection to return home.”

“Aye, Chief!” Erich shouted, raising his tankard in salute. The others milling about the table responded in kind, and Cormaic stood up to echo his agreement to his Chief with a wide grin gracing his blond bearded face.

Makedewa placed a hand on Winn’s shoulder. Chetan was conspicuously absent from the celebration. When Makedewa made his exit and left the Northern Hall in search of his wife, he found his brother by the fire with Rebecca. Kaleb sat alongside, entranced by the dance before him.

Chetan crouched down, then rose up, his movements fluid as he waved the essence of life toward the fire. He held Rebecca’s hand as she mimicked the dance at his side, dressed only in a simple thin shift that showed the curve of her sculpted calves as she twirled. Her hair was loose, alive around her shoulders, and she closed her eyes as Chetan uttered the magical chant. Makedewa recognized the ancient dance, one meant to show the life force to the afterworld, to ensure a speedy journey free from the temptation of an earthy life. Sometimes it was difficult for a spirit to leave ones it loved; it wished to cling to those earthbound beings like stubborn moss to a stone. With the sacred dance, the spirit was shown the proper way to leave, ensuring it a place alongside the Great Creator.

He watched them silently until they finished, and then he joined them beside the fire. Eyes glowing like embers, Rebecca smiled when Chetan placed her hand into his.

“Young Dagr gifted you a spirit. You asked it to stay, brother. You know you cannot keep a spirit bound to you,” Chetan said.

“No, I cannot. But this woman here, I can keep her bound to me. That is something I can do,” he replied. “If she wishes it, that is.”

“I do wish it. I meant every word of my vows. And I shall keep my word … if only I have a promise from ye,” Rebecca said softly. He cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Oh? If you ask it of me, then you shall have it.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her forehead to his. He could feel the curve of her body fit neatly into his, and he was pleased to feel that his body was blessedly intact in every way.

“Never doubt me again. Trust in me as I trust in ye.”

She kissed him gently on the lips, despite the audience around them, then raised her brow at him in question.

“Well?” she asked, her words throaty and low.

“You have it, wife. It is yours.”

Makedewa and Rebecca rode out with Kaleb to the edge of the meadow, well past the entrance to the narrow path through the hills. It was far enough away that Kaleb would not easily find his way back, and they decided that it was better that way for all of them. With Kaleb’s pledge to never speak of the magic he witnessed, Makedewa took that vow and held onto it. After all, the man had helped haul him back to the village, and thus saved his life. The Englishman could have taken Rebecca back to Elizabeth City and left him for dead. That knowledge alone was enough to give Makedewa some confidence in his honor.

When Kaleb turned back to them, his eyes fell downcast and his shoulders slumped. It was a small gesture, but enough for Makedewa to see the man meant what he said: he would keep his word of silence, although he knew he might face questioning for it. A thought of running the Englishman through with his knife entered Makedewa’s thoughts. It was a fire, smoldering under his skin, the urge to silence the voice from the coward’s lips nearly leaving him singed.

Yet feeling the young woman beside him, so close that her golden hair grazed his skin, gave him the strength to battle down the rage as it surfaced. Another death would serve no one; and in this acquiescence, Makedewa felt the debt was paid, if ever there was one.

“Go. Take her, take the horses. Go back to yer people,” Kaleb demanded. “Make haste. Let me never see ye again.”

Makedewa swung up on the horse. Rebecca took his hand and lifted up effortlessly behind him. She was nothing like the frightened girl he had rescued from the Massacre that day.

“Indian,” Kaleb called out in a strangled voice.

Makedewa swung the horse around.

“I knew what he did at Henricus. I did nothing. I knew it, and I did nothing,” Kaleb said hoarsely. “I was weak. I am sorry.”

He felt Rebecca’s fingers tighten into the fabric of his tunic, her hands clenched into fists at his sides. Makedewa stared down at the man, and as he looked into the Englishman’s eyes he felt something leave him. It was a hint of the spirit, the whisper of a life past, and he was glad to see it go.

“I know, Kaleb,” Makedewa replied. “I know.”

He turned the horse toward home, and this time it was Rebecca who planted her heels into the beast to urge it on.

Benjamin

THEIR WEDDING WAS a muted affair. Attended by Agnarr and a decidedly complacent Reinn with a fresh bandage on his hand, Benjamin expected to be struck down by lightening before they left the church. After all, was it not a sin to enter into marriage with lies between two people? Whatever truth could be said, at least Benjamin knew Jora was glad to be at his side, and that was much more than he could say for his previous marriage.

He shook off the memory. It was not one he would think on.

Not ever again.

For all intent and purpose, he was a man without kin, a man with no blood ties. The closest tie to the past he now had was the man standing beside him, a filthy rich blond-haired devil with a spawn of loyal Englishmen in his employ. Somehow there was a connection between them, and someday Benjamin knew he would find it. It would take patience, he must be canny; he could make no mistake in his quest to reveal what need Agnarr had for the blooded MacMhaolian.

The memory of his father demanded it. The memory of his lost brother required it. As for love lost, well, perhaps some semblance of care might be gained through the alliance with Jora.

She was a pleasing lass, quite bonny to look on, and for that alone he knew he was a fortunate man to have her as his wife. Women were still quite scarce in the colony, and to have a beautiful young lady at his side leant him an air of admiration among the men. This time he had given all he had for a woman he did not trust; perhaps as time wore on something more might come of their union.

Benjamin and Jora would leave the plantation to live at the tavern in Elizabeth City in the morning, but their wedding night would be spent at Wakehill. He was eager to have it finished and be gone from Agnarr’s watchful eye. Both he and Jora would rest easier without the constant supervision.

As Benjamin prepared to enter his room, Agnarr stopped him with an offer of brandy. It was an expensive batch, newly acquired off a ship from England. Agnarr consumed only the best, and Benjamin supposed he should feign a gracious attitude that his benefactor shared it.

“Thank ye,” he murmured, sipping the brandy as quickly as he could without causing offense. Agnarr noticed, of course, in that introspective manner he had of seeing through the façade of any man. This time, however, he played it off to Benjamin’s eagerness to bed his bride, and a wide grin graced his face as he sipped.

“Such a hurry? Well, I shall not keep ye from yer task,” Agnarr chuckled. Benjamin gripped his crystal glass, wanting nothing more than to smash it into Agnarr’s smirking face. Instead, he smiled and tipped the glass gracefully to his benefactor.

“Did ye learn much from yer Time Walker kin, lad?”

Benjamin froze with his hand on the door latch. Why would Agnarr bring such a thing up now?

“Nay. I knew nothing. I told ye, I was a boy when I traveled,” he replied. He did not turn back to Agnarr, hoping it would be the last of his inquiry.

“Well. Then I suppose ye do not know if ye were bled when ye were a bairn, now would ye?”

At this Benjamin stirred, his curiosity piqued. Bled?

Always up for a story, Agnarr noted his interest and continued on to explain.

“Ye see, when a Blooded One’s child is born, or even the child of a Chief Protector’s line, there is a ceremony to… let’s say, test the blood. It takes only a drop from a true Blooded MacMhaolian to give life to the dead. Are ye sure ye know nothing of this tale, lad?”

Benjamin shook his head. In his time in the village, he had heard not a whisper of such a thing. For once he was glad he had not learned enough from his father; if he knew any more, it would be too easy to see it in his face, and knowledge of any such powerful magic was exactly what Agnarr sought.

“I see not why this should concern me tonight,” Benjamin muttered, refusing to meet Agnarr’s gaze. He heard the man utter a soft laugh.

“Not tonight, lad. It shallna concern ye tonight. Enjoy yer bride. I wish ye happy tidings in yer new marriage…and many children.”

Benjamin entered the room without another glance at Agnarr, still clutching the crystal glass in his hand. He slammed it down onto the mantel along with his fist. Whatever evil Agnarr plotted, Benjamin would find it. Agnarr’s newest story was just one more reason to strengthen his resolve.

“Benjamin?”

Her voice was tentative, soft. Like her skin when he turned and took her in his arms. Jora did not merely yield to his touch, she welcomed it, seeking to shed him of his clothes as fast as he meant to rid her of her gown.

If he was meant to be a wicked man without honor, then so be it. As he sank down into the bed with his wife he thought, wickedness and betrayal could be no sweeter.

$C:\Users\E.B\Desktop\OneDrive\SIX_E52E6758-DA60-484D-8038-350778986380.JPG$

ALL THAT REMAINS

BOOK 4

Prologue

James County, Virginia

October 2012

Winn

He ran his hand over his head, his fingers brushing down through the prickly short hairs on his fresh shorn scalp. It felt strange without the weight of his braid down his back, and he could feel the autumn breeze at his nape as he crouched down. The journey through time had been very much as Maggie described; pulling his body down, the unseen force urging him to submit, until finally, when he pressed his face to the earth the sky exploded into darkness.

He woke lying flat on his back, staring up at grey storm clouds overhead. Scattered raindrops dotted his skin as he sat up. As he looked around to gain some sense of reality, he saw an English-style house with the soft glow of lights inside through the glass windows. To his other side was a large red barn with the door slightly ajar. The future had some fragrance of the past, but most of the scents assaulting his senses were dank. As he crept up to the house and kneeled down next to the window, he could hear the sound of a man speaking. Without being able to see who was in the house, he could only assume the man was daft by the way he carried on a conversation alone. He peered through the window and saw one of the things Maggie had described to him. It was a picture box, one where people acted out stories on a flat screen. Although his wife had told him it was called a television, his heart still raced at the sight of it and he recalled a fight they once had.

“You have no idea what my life was like!” she shouted.

Yes, she was right.

No matter how much she described the future, he still had no idea. The truth of her words felt heavy in his belly as he sat there in her future time, so far away from all those he loved. What if he was unable to return to them?

Winn swallowed hard and took a deep breath. There was no time for hesitation. He needed to find Marcus and get what he came for. As he stood up, suddenly the door flew open and slammed against the shingles of the house and a woman stalked outside past him. She clutched a red coat around herself, muttering under her breath as she bent her head against the wind.

His heart hammered in his chest as she turned his way. Her auburn hair whipped over her shoulder and her soft green eyes lay beneath red-rimmed eyelids. Her face was round and she carried more weight on her frame as she had on the day they met, and as he took in the rest of her attire he could hear his own pulse throbbing in his head.

Maggie stood in front of him.

The denim trousers, the heavy buckskin colored boots. The strap of a pink undergarment peeking out at one shoulder where her thin cotton shirt exposed her skin. She shoved her hands in the front pockets of her trousers and raised her eyebrows at him. Defiant and unamused, the woman who would someday be his wife stared at him with restrained indifference.

“Well?” Maggie said, as if he had failed to answer a question. His words caught between his dry lips as he stumbled over what to say to her. She made no effort to hide her eyes as she surveyed him head to foot, her brows squinting down and her lips pursed. If he had ever thought her behavior bold before, the way she confronted him now leant some indication of how she was accustomed to speaking to men.

“Wh – what?” he stammered.

“Were you gonna knock, or just stand there? If you’re looking for Marcus, he’s in the kitchen,” she replied, as if impatient with him. Winn knew his face must have looked addled, so he made an attempt to slow down his breathing and make his words more confident. It confused him that she would not ask who he was or what he wanted, but instead she merely offered him entrance to her home.

“Yes. Yes, I am here to see Marcus,” he said slowly.

“Whatever. Later,” she said as she shrugged. She turned away to leave, but before he could stop himself he reached out and snatched her hand. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to feel her heart pound against his. But this was not his wife yet, he was no more than a stranger to her, and he could not endanger the success of his journey by falling prey to his aching soul.

“Wait,” he whispered hoarsely. “I think you dropped this.”

Winn pulled her watch from the pocket of his tunic and placed it in her hand. She stared down at it but did not pull away. Her fingers felt warm against his despite the brisk air, and she slowly looked up at him.

“Thank you. I’ve been looking for that,” she said softly. Her green eyes softened as they met his, creases forming as her lips twitched and dropped slightly open. “Who did you say you are?”

He continued to hold her hand, fighting the urge to draw her close.

“An old friend,” he replied.

“Oh, okay. Well, thanks. See you later,” she said, and this time her words were stammered out as her cheeks filled with color. She uttered a nervous laugh and pulled her hand back before she walked away. As he watched her go into the barn, he had no doubt about what day he had arrived in the future. Any moment she would be taken to his time by her Bloodstone, and he could recall every detail of their meeting as if it had happened only yesterday.

Norse Village, 1634

Maggie

Curled on her side, her limbs still felt heavy from the dreams of a rested sleep when she felt the touch on her ribs. Inquisitive, testing, his fingers traced up across her belly, then paused before his warm palm came to rest. His hand squeezed lightly, a question more than anything, and she answered him with a slight, but definite nudge of her elbow into his ribs.

“I’m awake,” Maggie said. A smile crossed her lips as she felt him slide one leg over hers. Winn was a furnace, his skin aflame against her even when she needed layers of furs to keep warm. She snuggled deeper into him.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to wake you,” he whispered. His words were teasing, and by the sound of his voice she knew he was anything but sorry. It seemed he certainly had no intention of sleeping.

“Sure you didn’t,” she replied. “I thought you’d be with the men longer.”

“I should be,” he admitted, his lips grazing her cheek. She closed her eyes at the contact. “But I’ve heard nothing of what they speak of for the last two hours. All I could see was you, across the hall, holding my son, without any care for your poor husband…”

He squeezed her gently to demonstrate, and she let out a tiny shriek.

“Winn!” she laughed.

“…then you left, and I’ve been missing you ever since,” he whispered.

“Well, that doesn’t sound very fun,” she admitted. He shifted so than he could look down on her. Leaning on one elbow, his eyes glazed with playfulness, he bent to trace his lips over her skin. Down her neck, making her shiver.

“No, it was not fun at all,” he agreed. “Then I realized there is a solution to my, uhm, problem.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I am Chief. If I wish to seek out my wife, I will do so,” he muttered with a grin. He kissed her soundly, stealing the breath from her lungs. “Ah, that is better now.”

“So it’s good to be the Chief,” she murmured. A brief echo of her past surfaced at her clumsy attempt at humor, but when he stared down at her she was glad he did not understand it. Silent now, his gaze slicing through her soul, his banter turned serious.

“I am only your husband now,” he said softly. “And this is where my duty lies.” Winn spoke with his touch rather than his words, the shadow of flesh upon flesh drawing him deeper than anything spoken. His gleaming eyes never left hers.

“Then do your duty, husband,” she whispered, and he did.

Winn left early the next morning as was his usual routine, taking eight year-old Dagr with him to meet with the men. She wondered what her son might learn with his father today. Would it be to hunt? To learn the ways of being a Chief, as his father was? Or might it be a lesson in killing?

The possibilities unnerved her at times. Despite her best efforts, Maggie still had difficulty going along with life in the seventeenth century. Sometimes she thought of how her life might be if Winn had journeyed to the future, instead of the magic of the Bloodstone sending her to the past. She had no doubt and no regret that her life was joined with his, but she could not help but wonder how things might have been different.

As she made her way to the Northern Hall, what the Norse speaking members of the village called the Noroanveror Skali, she spotted Winn grappling with Dagr in the courtyard. She adjusted two-year old Malcolm on her hip to watch them as her daughter Kyra ran ahead.

No, she thought with a secret grin as her husband taught her son a lesson. Winn was meant for the time he was born to, and she was meant to find him.

Winn’s arms stood out in welcome beneath his simple fur-lined vest as he taunted his son, and Maggie let out a groan when Dagr rushed his father haphazardly. The boy was promptly upended onto his backside, eliciting an uncharacteristic swear word in Norse from the youngster. Maggie tried not to smirk when Winn reached down and ruffled Dagr’s mane of thick black hair, which did nothing to stem the tide of obscenities coming from his mouth.

“That cannot possibly be my son talking like that,” she commented as she joined them. A crooked grin graced Winn’s face. With one hand holding the squirming Dagr flat on the ground, he glanced down briefly at his son before he greeted her.

“Do not blame me. He’s your son,” Winn chuckled. When Malcolm reached out two hands toward his father, Winn released Dagr and took his younger son from Maggie.

“Da! Down! Nior!” Malcolm cried, his demand relayed in both Norse and English.

“It is not time for you to fight yet, Mal. Soon, I promise,” Winn said to the child. Malcolm pouted but stilled in Winn’s arms, sticking a thumb in his mouth as his dark eyes turned to his father.

Maggie caught her fingers in the edge of Dagr’s braies before he ran off.

“You!” she admonished him. Dagr had the good sense to know when he was in trouble. He stood bravely beside her, his narrow chest rising and falling rapidly as he struggled to contain his ire. “I’ll wash your mouth out with sand, don’t think I won’t!”

Dagr scowled when she kissed his cheek.

“Aww, Ma!” the boy hissed. He twisted away from her kiss and raced off to join the older boys who were gathered by the well. Dagr was built like his father – lean but solid, thick through his shoulders, with a strength from his core that gave him an undeniable aura. With his dark skin and long hair, he could easily blend in with any of the Indian tribes just as his father had. Yet in the village, he was the young son of the Chief, unique in his own special way among the Norse.

Ahi Kekeleksu grabbed Dagr around the neck as the boy ran straight into a mob of young men. Keke, son of Winn’s brother Chetan, had turned into quite a stout young man over the winter. Gone was the boyish shyness and the uncertainty when speaking with others. Keke seemed the leader of the pack of youths in the village, those who were new to manhood and testing the limits. Iain was his closest friend, the half-Indian son of Roanoke survivor Ellie, and Tyr was a Norse youth that kept company with them.

When Keke let young Dagr pummel him before he shoved him toward the meal table she smiled. Although quite a bit younger than his cousin, Dagr still assumed a spot of honor amongst the boys. After all, Dagr was Chief Winn’s eldest son.

Across the expanse of the Northern Hall, Maggie spotted Rebecca. With her long blond curls hanging loose over her shoulders and her skin flushed with radiance only happiness could give, she sat quietly beside her husband Makedewa as he spoke with the men. Although she was close to term with her pregnancy, she carried small, her bump only scarcely visible under her long gown. Rebecca gave a quick wave to Maggie when they spotted each other across the room, but the younger woman quickly returned her attention to her Indian husband.

Maggie smiled. Perhaps she could corner her friend later to ask how she was feeling, without Makedewa near. Rebecca would never admit any discomfort with her husband within earshot.

As Maggie and Winn joined the group, Winn swung Malcolm onto his shoulders, a place of prominence that the child loved. Winn held the youngster’s kicking feet in place with his hands and Malcolm pointed and laughed at his kin.

“Winn is here now, let him decide,” Cormaic called out. Maggie’s cousin was a bear of a man, standing taller than her husband with a set of arms to rival any body builder from her future time. His physique was earned from a lifetime of labor, hewn from endless hours spent hunting and fighting. Maggie was surprised to see him agitated, being that gentle Cormaic usually kept his stronger emotions under wraps. Standing next to the Indian Makedewa, however, Cormaic appeared anything but happy. Cormaic handed Winn a tankard of mead.

“On what shall I decide?” Winn answered.

“There’s more woodland being burned, and now it’s close to the Nansemond village. We should send some of our men to protect them,” Cormaic replied.

Winn took the proffered mug and drank half of it before answering, his eyes scanning the men before him. He kept one hand on his son’s heels, and Malcolm rested his hand on Winn’s head.

“So they want more fields for their tobacco,” Winn said. Cormaic nodded, casting a look at Makedewa.

“The English are never happy. They keep taking the land, destroying it with their crops. They burn too much and leave nothing for the tribes,” Winn’s Indian brother replied.

“Has Pepamhu sent for help?” Winn asked. Maggie was not aware of any emissaries from the Nansemond village, nor of a visit from Makedewa’s father. It was a sore subject for both Winn and Makedewa, since the Nansemond sheltered the last of the Paspahegh people. Among them was Winn and Makedewa’s mother, now first wife to Pepamhu, the Nansemond leader of that particular tribe.

“No,” Makedewa answered.

Winn handed Malcolm back to her when the boy grabbed for his mead cup. Maggie took the child without a word, intent on listening to what the men discussed.

“Send a rider to the village. I need word from Pepamhu before we act,” Winn said.

“I will go.”

Winn nodded to Makedewa at his offer. Maggie knew it made sense for the younger man to carry out the duty, yet she wondered how Rebecca would feel over her husband’s departure.

Hoisting the toddler higher up on her hip, she made her way over to Rebecca as the men continued to discuss their plans. Things had been quiet in the village for some time, with no interference from the English or threats from any native tribes. They kept close ties with the Nansemond, a tie that gave them some standing with the Indian community and kept them relatively safe. With the English, however, relations were strained, and it seemed only a matter of time before the English curiosity grew into something more. Over the last few months, Winn had restricted the men from journeying into town for trade; they went only in groups of heavily armed men, and they only ventured out when there was the utmost need.

Despite all their efforts, it seemed they would soon be right in the path of the English expansion. If they were burning fields near the Nansemond, it would not be long before they reached the Norse village as well.

“How are you?” Maggie asked as she reached her friend. Rebecca brushed the back of her palm over her brow, wiping away the bead of fine sweat at her hairline. Her blond curls lay matted at her nape, her cheeks plump and flushed. If anything bothered her she hid it well, striking a wide smile as Maggie joined her.

“Fine,” Rebecca answered. “But I will admit I am ready to meet this wee one. I canna hardly see my toes this morning, and I feel so clumsy.”

“Soon, I think. Gwen seems to think so as well,” Maggie replied. Malcolm squirmed away and hid his head in her shoulder when Rebecca tried to give him a kiss.

“I should hope so,” the younger woman smiled. Rebecca perked up when Makedewa lifted his chin to her across the room. He split away from the group of men and moved to join them.

“I’ll leave you to your husband,” Maggie whispered, giving her friend’s arm a squeeze. She nodded to Makedewa. “Morning,” she said. He scowled and grunted a greeting under his breath, causing Maggie to roll her eyes with a sigh. Always coarse and unmanageable, Makedewa’s stony demeanor was a constant they could all rely on. Except when it came to his wife, there was little that would crack his facade, and even the impending birth of his first child had not softened him. If anything, his tension seemed to swell with each day that passed. She wondered if Rebecca was truly ready for the birth, or if she only wished to end her husband’s distress. It was anyone’s guess.

Maggie made her way across the Northern Hall. On the long table was the remnants of the morning meal. She let Malcolm chew on a piece of hard bread as she gathered food into her small pouch, taking enough to fill her belly and soothe the child. The rest of her family managed on their own; Winn ate with the men, and Malcolm sat with his friends. Maggie spotted eleven year-old Kyra with her aunt Gwen near the hearth fire, and she knew all those she loved were fed. There was little she had control of in her world, but it was one thing she took comfort in seeing to.

Malcolm toddled ahead, happy to explore on his own as they left the hall and walked through the courtyard. Winn’s eyes met hers as she passed by the men. She ducked her chin down and kept going, knowing he was busy and she should leave him to it. Tending the village was a full-time occupation, and as Chief, Winn took it upon himself to see everyone’s needs were met. It was a duty that kept him long hours into the night, sometimes only returning to her bed in time to see the morning sunrise in the sky. As such, it was her responsibility to support him, and she tried her best to be the sort of wife he needed.

She was surprised, but entirely pleased when she felt Winn come up beside her, his stride matching hers. He took her elbow and pulled her to a stop. Although his eyes were still on the men, he dipped his head to her ear and his hand slipped down onto her hip. He rested it there for a moment, his fingers kneading her gently as his breath tickled her cheek.

“Did I say you could leave?” he asked, his voice low and teasing. She bit back a giggle and gave him a demure half-bow.

“No, my lord,” she shot back. Her surly response sent the corner of his lip up into a grin.

“You should mind your tongue, wife,” he said. He touched her neck with his fingertips, sending a shiver straight through to her toes. “You know I hate when you call me that. I would rather hear my name on your lips.”

“Oh, would you, my lord?” she laughed. His grip tightened on her and he pulled her close, despite the fact that they were in the middle of the busy courtyard and that people milled around them. She felt a rush of heat fill her cheeks.

“Yes, I would. Perhaps you have forgotten it. I could put off my duties if you require a lesson in how to address me properly,” he whispered. She swallowed as his blue eyes flashed with mock ire, his gaze drifting from her eyes to her lips.

“I’m not sure you can teach me anything,” she stammered. His brows narrowed.

“Oh, you will regret that,” he murmured. He took her hand and placed it flat against his chest, flush to his skin beneath the edge of his vest. His pulse beat madly under her fingers, showing her exactly how serious he was.

“I hope so,” she said softly as she caught her breath. She gathered her flailing wits and planted a playful kiss on his cheek as she whispered, “Have fun with the men, my lord. I’m very busy today, I have no time for talking.”

With his lips pressed lightly to her ear, he uttered his hoarse reply.

“When I see you next, you will have no need for talking. That, my wife, I promise you.”

She kept the rest of her retorts to herself when he left her standing there. He shook his head as he turned and left, and Maggie sighed with a grin spreading across her face. As she caught up ahead with Malcolm and swept him up in her arms, she glanced back at the men.

Winn was surrounded by the others, yet his eyes met hers through the crowd. She could see the promise in his gaze as clear as the sun blazing above them.

Oh, yes, she thought. Next time she saw him, there would be very little talking.

Kyra

“Oh, I cannot stand it! Make it stop!” Kyra muttered. She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her palms over each ear to muffle the screams of childbirth, yet the clamor continued despite her efforts. There was no escape from Rebecca’s shrieks, which she thought had been going on an awfully long time in spite of there being plenty of help. Why didn’t Aunt Gwen do something to ease her pain, or have Gramma Finola utter a spell? Surely, there was some way to make it better!

“Are ye all right?”

She cracked open one eye, just a slit, but enough to cast a glare at sixteen-year-old Morgan. He kneeled beside her in the grass, looking idly toward the village and the sounds of Rebecca’s pain. The chaos seemed not to bother him so much.

“No. I think it’s killing her. The blasted wean is killing her, I’m sure of it!” she whispered. Unwilling to say much more, she shook her head in defiance and clamped her hands tight when another squeal pierced the air.

“Nay, it will be fine,” he assured her.

Morgan patted her arm, the motion hesitant but still comforting. In her panic to stop the screams from reaching her ears, Kyra ducked her head into Morgan’s shoulder. She heard the older boy let out a sigh as she burrowed into him, but he relented and made a clumsy attempt to comfort her by gently hugging her. Although she was only eleven, he still looked out for her, and she did not know what she would do if she did not have his friendship. They sat on the ground next to the moss-covered log as Morgan stammered words of consolation.

“Kyra!”

Uncle Chetan stood above them, his eyes wary, his hands planted on his hips. Chetan was not a man easily angered, so when Kyra saw the dark glare in his eyes she was instantly worried. He grabbed her by the elbow and yanked her up off the ground, out of Morgan’s arms, his face contorted as he surveyed them.

“What the–never mind! Be glad I found you instead of your father!” Chetan growled. Then he turned to Morgan, who was sprawled beside the log. “And you! Go back to town. I think you are too old for my niece to follow you any longer. Go. Now!”

Morgan slowly rose to his feet, his skin burning with crimson color from his neck to his ears. Although Chetan’s grip on her arm was unbreakable, his eyes were still fastened on Morgan. Kyra stomped her foot and tried to wrench her arm away from her uncle, but he held fast.

“Why must he leave? Uncle–”

“Not another word, Kwetii,” Chetan snapped. Her heart seemed squeezed by a fist as she watched Morgan mount his pony with a flying leap and take off away from the village.

Chetan escorted her to the Northern Hall, where her father was sitting at the long table with the other men. Uncle Makedewa sat beside him, not drinking like the rest, merely staring into the tankard he gripped it in both hands. It was clear the other men tried to console him as his wife labored to birth their child. As Chetan brought her into the hall, her father rose from his seat and met them near the door.

“Where have you been? Your mother was worried,” Chief Winn chastised her. She grimaced under his narrowed gaze and ducked her head. She knew she had been ordered to stay near the Longhouse, but when she saw Morgan had come to visit she could not help but escape with him to avoid hearing the wails. Everyone was so caught up in the birth of Rebecca’s child that they did not even notice when she slipped away. She didn’t understand why her uncle seemed so angry. After all, she had not been far away, and nothing bad had happened.

“I found her with Morgan White near the woods,” Chetan said. Kyra scowled at her uncle but quickly hid her scrunched face when her father turned his attention to her.

“Is that true, Kwetii? Did you disobey your mother?” Father asked. She nodded sourly, keeping her eyes down at her feet. Great. She would be in trouble again. She hoped they would not make her sit in the corner. That was her mother’s favorite punishment, and Kyra found it entirely boring.

“I think Morgan is growing too old to play with Kyra any longer,” Chetan added. Kyra’s head snapped up at that.

“He’s not that old! I’ll be older soon, too!” she interrupted. Winn grunted a warning at her, and she put her head back down.

“Too old, hmm?” Winn asked. From the corner of her eye, she saw Chetan nod, and the two men exchanged a peculiar glance. Kyra did not like it, not one bit.

Chief Winn bent down, placing one hand on her shoulder. His gaze was still fierce, but his eyes held a twinkle of softness that she needed to see from her father.

“I know you grow older with each sunrise, but he is the age of your cousin and needs friends his own age. I think you should play with the girls from now on, daughter,” he said. She tried to stop the swell of tears that surfaced, wiping angrily at her eyes with one dusty fist.

“He’s my friend,” she said softly. Father squeezed her shoulder.

“I know. But he is no longer a child. Would you want the other boys to think him weak?”

“Morgan doesn’t care what the others think.”

“Maybe not, little one. But I do. You are my daughter, and I must look out for you. No more playing with Morgan in the woods. Play with the other girls. Make new friends.”

“Yes, Da,” she muttered. She said it, but she did not mean it, and she was certain her father could see through her shallow promise quite easily.

“Good. Go to your mother, she worries after you.”

Kyra shot one more seething glare at her uncle, then picked up her skirts and ran from the hall.

Well, her father might be Chief, but she still had two legs. There was no way he could command her to stop being friends with Morgan.

She stalked across the yard to their home, pausing outside the open door. The sounds of Rebecca’s screams reached a pealing squeal, yet still there was no sound of a babe. Kyra bypassed the door, went to her tied pony, and mounted up.

It had been a long time since she had been allowed into town with her father, but the path was worn into a thin sandy line through the woods by the many times Morgan had traveled back and forth. Her pony followed the path without much prodding, which was fortunate since she was lost in her own thoughts as she approached Elizabeth City. She knew Morgan had moved there with his guardian, John Jackson, who was an acquaintance of her father’s. John Jackson was a gunsmith, and Kyra had heard Morgan speak once or twice about working at the local ordinary. It was not much to go on, but she was determined to find him. She needed to tell him that they would always be friends, no matter what her father or uncle had to say.

The town was much different from what she was accustomed to. People milled about, so many people that no one seemed to notice her at all. It was a comforting thought, since she was utterly exhausted of people butting into her business at every turn. Her mother could tell people to “mind your business!” but Kyra, unfortunately, was not allowed to speak to her elders that way.

She followed the sounds of music and bawdy laughter into the center of town. There, a brightly lit tavern stood, cramped full of bodies as daylight left the sky and settled into nightfall. She imagined someone there could help her find Morgan. After all, how many boys could there be named Morgan White in one town?

After tying her pony to a hitching post, she slid in through the open door. Lacking in manners in such a situation, it was all she could do to stare at the passel of English as she pushed through them. Some wore frilly finery, dressed in bright fanciful colors and covered with jeweled baubles. Others wore the clothes of laborers, with muted shades of homespun on breeches and tunics, pointed wool hats and work-stained hands. It fascinated her to see them all in one place, such a hodgepodge of different likes and tastes. So caught up in taking it all in, Kyra was startled when a hand suddenly closed on her upper arm.

Her first reaction was to look down at the hand. It was large, quite large, in fact, and it was latched securely over hers as if the stranger held some authority over her. Who dared handle her in such a way? Well, obviously he did not know who she was, and her father would surely have words with him over his attempt to manhandle her.

“I beg yer pardon, ye ignorant old fool!” she hissed, trying to jerk her arm away.

The man bent down, and she clamped her mouth shut at the sight of him. He was bigger than her uncle Cormaic, even larger than her own father. A swatch of unruly black hair fell over his brow as he bent down to her level. His eyes were a deep, blazing blue, seeming alight with what she could neither discern as annoyance or amusement.

“Quiet yer tongue, lass! What on God’s earth are ye doing here?” he replied, shaking her a bit as he spoke. She peered up at him. Even kneeling, he was still a monster, and for the first time since her hasty escape from the village a sliver of fear infused her.

“I–I’m looking for my friend. It’s none of yer concern, sir!” she sniped. She figured at least if she sounded brave, he might think she was.

He glanced over his shoulder toward the long wooden bar, then turned back to her as he uttered a sigh. His face softened, only a bit, but enough to ease her mind that he meant her harm. Truth be told, the man seemed perplexed.

“Not quite eleven years old, and here in a tavern. Well, I suppose there’s a first for everything. Where’s yer father? Does he know ye’ve run away from him?”

“No,” she admitted. She saw a woman approach, and Kyra knew the strange man noticed her as well. The woman rubbed a glass in her hand with a cotton cloth as she approached, her eyebrows upraised in question. The man stood up straight as the woman joined them.

“What have ye got here, Benjamin?” the woman asked. She was pretty, Kyra thought, for an Englishwoman. More of the height of Kyra’s mother, the woman’s head barely reached the man’s shoulder. She did not seem intimidated by Benjamin in the least, tossing her loose brown hair back as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Nothing fer ye to worry on. Just a stray from town, I’ll see her back to her folks,” Benjamin said. Kyra started to open her mouth, but clamped it shut instead. Something unspoken was going on between the two adults, and somehow she was plunked right smack in the middle of it.

Before Kyra could protest, she was shoved unceremoniously out the door, her arm still firm in the man named Benjamin’s hand. It suddenly occurred to her that she was in a heap of trouble. Lost in town, with no idea how to find Morgan, no one would know where to find her when she ended up dead. As much as the fear ignited her anger, she felt tears spring onto her cheeks as Benjamin dragged her out into the street. Despite her tears, he did not stop dragging her until they were alone in the shadows behind the tavern, out of sight of anyone she might call out to for help.

“So tell me where yer father is, so I might return ye to him,” Benjamin said softly, finally letting his grip on her arm loosen. He was no fool, however, and he did not let go entirely as he bent down again to her level.

“He–he’s not here,” she admitted as she started to cry. “And he’s gonna tan me good if I ever see him again!” Despite meaning not to, she burst into tears.

“Och, there, mite, don’t cry, I’ll take ye back to yer father. Ran away, did ye?” he asked gently, patting her back as she cried. She nodded. “Oh, I see. Like that, hmm? Sick of his uppity orders and such?”

She choked back a sob as she nodded and glanced up at him through her tear-soaked lashes.

“He said I couldna play with Morgan anymore. He said Morgan’s too old. But I’m almost grown! I’ll be older, soon, I will!” she explained.

Benjamin smiled. He took a clean cloth from his pocket and wiped the tears from her dirt-stained cheeks as she tried to control herself. Somehow, the stranger did not seem so threatening any longer. In fact, she felt quite comfortable with him.

“Well, if yer speakin’ of Morgan White, then I must agree with yer Da. Morgan’s a young man now, and he shouldna be playing with bitty girls like ye,” Benjamin said.

“Do ye know Morgan?” she said, her tears instantly squelched at the prospect. Benjamin nodded.

“Aye, I know the lad well. As I do yer Da.”

Benjamin looked a little sad at that confession, and Kyra wondered how they knew each other. If they had met before, she was certain she would have remembered him.

“I need to find Morgan.”

“Ye need to go home. C’mon. I’ll see ye back the way ye came.”

He kept hold of her hand as if she might run. As they rounded the corner to where her pony should have been standing, she let out a groan when she saw Blaze was not there. Oh, sweet Odin! Not only had she run away, but she’d lost her horse. If she made it home, she was going to be walking bow-legged from a busted arse for a solid week.

“My pony’s gone. Da’s gonna tan my arse,” she whispered. Benjamin’s eyes burst wide open and he uttered a deep laugh despite her dismay.

“He might, Kwetii, he might just that,” he agreed. A rush of unease surfaced at his use of her Indian name. How did he know it–and how did he know her?

“Here, we’ll make a stop, and then we’ll get going.”

She walked obediently with him down the street, for lack of options or lack of wits about her, she did not know. He had to be friends with her father is he knew her Paspahegh name. They stopped at a small cottage, and it was not long before she realized where they were. With the smoke stack above and the smell of gunpowder, it could only be the gunsmith’s house where Morgan lived.

When Benjamin knocked on the door it parted open only a notch, but he spoke swift and softly to the occupant. The door closed and a moment later Morgan came outside, rubbing his eyes with his closed fists with his hair sticking out in blond tangles around his face. He was dressed in a long shirt over a pair of breeches, hastily pushing them down into his tall boots as he joined them.

Thrilled to see him, Kyra moved toward him, but Benjamin held her firm. She was glad at that moment, because Morgan glared at her in a way he had never looked upon her before, and it tore what was left of her childlike heart into tiny pieces.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll help ye return her,” Morgan muttered and turned sharply to her. “Yer father will have yer hide, ye little fool. Why would ye defy him? He’ll kill ye when he finds out, be sure of that!” Morgan brushed past Kyra without another glance and readied his horse. Benjamin lifted her easily onto a second ready horse and then mounted behind her, and they took off in a brisk lope toward the outskirts of town. They did not slow until they reached the seclusion of the wood line and the lights of the town were just dim glimmers through the trees when she looked back.

They looked longingly back at Morgan as they rode, but he refused to meet her gaze. She didn’t understand why he was so angry at her, and how her plan had spiraled so horribly out of control. She had only wanted to assure him they would always be friends, that there was no other who could replace him in her heart of hearts. Even when separated, that is what it meant to be friends, and she would stand by that vow until she grew old enough for him.

“I meant no harm,” she said. She saw Morgan stiffen upright in his saddle.

“Ye never do. Yer a spoilt child,” Morgan replied.

“I’m not that much younger than ye, Morgan White!”

“Yes, ye are! And I doona want to see ye anymore. I’ll never turn a lady’s eye with ye following me about. It’s best ye listen to yer Da.”

Kyra felt the warmth of tears as they slid down her cheeks, and she turned her face away so Morgan could not see. She choked back a sob, and she felt Benjamin’s arms tighten around her.

“That’s enough, lad. She knows she’s done wrong. No need to be so harsh,” Benjamin admonished the youth. Morgan uttered something low she could not decipher, and then pushed his horse forward to ride ahead of them.

“Yer broken heart will mend, lass. I promise ye that,” Benjamin commented. Kyra sighed.

“Why is he mad at me?” she asked.

“Because he’s a young man and yer only a girl, and he doesn’t need ye following him about. He doesn’t want to hurt ye.”

“How do ye know so much? And how do ye know my parents?”

“Well,” he replied. “Ye look like a ghost of yer mother at the same age, there’s no mistaking who yer ma is. And I happen to be well acquainted with yer Da, ye wee hellion.”

“He never speaks of ye,” she replied. At that she felt his arms stiffen, and she bounced with the stilted gait of the horse.

“No, he wouldna. Nor would yer ma.”

Benjamin fell silent after that, and she relaxed enough to close her eyes a bit. It was well past her bedtime, and the excitement of the day wore heavy on her.

Finally they arrived in a meadow near the Norse town, which she knew was only up over the next ridge. They dismounted, and Benjamin spoke quietly to Morgan.

“Take her into the village, and see her back to her Da. Make sure she goes in, make no doubt of it,” he ordered Morgan. Kyra had scarce time to wonder why Morgan took Benjamin’s instruction without issue, as if he knew Benjamin as well and had cause to respect the man. “And you. Don’t let me find ye in town again, or it willna be yer father tanning yer hide. Bide my word, Kwetii. Yer place is here, with yer kin.”

She didn’t know how to answer his demand other than to nod in agreement. Benjamin put his hands on her waist to lift her onto Morgan’s horse, when suddenly the air grew still. Only the sound of a snort from the horse punctured the silence, and Kyra felt the tiny hairs on her arms stand at attention. Benjamin froze, his hands tight on her waist, then pushed her behind him as if to shield her. An arrow whizzed by her, clearing her by a good foot to impale in the grass at her feet, and Kyra knew with certainty that the archer had meant to miss.

The tall grass at the edge of the meadow rustled, and every Norseman she knew then stood up from the cover. Chetan had his bow poised for another shot; Erich held a flink-lock musket perched in aim on his shoulder.

And then her father parted from the men and strode toward them, his face an echo of a legion of hell unleashed as he raised his bryntroll.

Chief Winn stopped a few paces away, his eyes darting back and forth between Benjamin and Kyra. Kyra kept behind her new protector, putting off the inevitable of facing her father as long as she could. Benjamin stood up straighter and met Winn’s gaze. For two men who were friends, surely they were acting right barmy, Kyra thought.

“My daughter. Was she harmed?” Winn said evenly. Kyra had never heard her father utter such strangled words before, and it sickened her. She instantly regretted her rash actions.

“I found her in the tavern. She’s fine,” Benjamin replied tersely.

The two men were silent for a moment, and then Benjamin broke the pause by pulling her forward. He bent down on one knee and gently wiped the remnants of tears from her face.

“Go on, lass. Go to yer Da,” he said softly. She was utterly confused but she did as he bid her, walking dutifully to her father’s side. Once she reached Winn and he had a hand on her shoulder, she saw her father lift his bryntroll and then gently lower it. The Norsemen behind him lining the meadow lowered their drawn weapons.

“Her pony returned without her. I feared–I feared she was hurt…or worse,” Winn said quietly. Benjamin broke the standoff by taking a few paces toward them, and Kyra heard the rustle of the Norsemen in the trees behind them.

“She came to no harm, and no one followed us here,” Benjamin replied.

She saw some unspoken message between the two men, and she suddenly knew there was much more to this encounter than the issue of her return. Who was Benjamin, and why did he speak to her father so boldly, as if the Englishman had no fear of him? Other than her uncles, she had never seen a man confront her father without fear, yet Benjamin stood straight and sure in front of them as if he had some secret assurance Winn meant him no harm.

Benjamin was either a fool or the bravest Englishman she had ever known. She was not sure which.

“My thanks for her safe return,” Winn said, his fingers tightening on her shoulder. “I give you safe passage to leave. None of my men will harm you.”

Benjamin’s gaze did not waver from Winn’s at that moment, but Kyra saw the way the Englishman’s fists tightened at his sides. She looked up at her father, and then to Benjamin, confused at the threat lying beneath her father’s words.

“Da, he helped me, he’s done no wrong!” Kyra interrupted. At her protest, her father snapped. He grabbed her by her chin and turned her face upwards, his face awash with a mixture of fear and fury she had never witnessed before.

“This man is our enemy. Be glad your heart still beats, and that he took pity on a foolish child!” her father growled. She squirmed to break the hold he had on her chin, but he was relentless, his blue eyes boring through her until tears coursed down her cheeks. Finally, he released her chin and she looked up at Benjamin through her misty eyes.

Her savior’s face held no shelter. Fixed as if carved from stone, there was no more trace of the kindness she had seen in him.

“Your father speaks true. Do not return to town. Ever. And be glad I am the only enemy who knows who ye are,” Benjamin said, staring down at her. His voice slanted to a coarse octave when he raised his eyes back to Winn’s. “Your secret is safe. For now.”

Winn nodded, and Benjamin returned the gesture. Before Kyra could utter another word, Winn turned abruptly and hauled her back to the village. As they reached the safety of the trees, she turned her head.

The pounding of hooves thudded like thunder across the damp earth, and she could only see the haunches of two horses as Benjamin and Morgan galloped out of sight.

Maggie

“You have to push now! Push!” Gwen demanded. Maggie’s aunt took a firm hold of Rebecca’s knees, urging on the younger woman in the midst of labor. Sweat dappled Rebecca’s forehead and the mop of blond curls on her head lay limp and plastered to the skin around her face. As Gwen shook her Rebecca let out a long sigh, more of a sob than anything. The desperate sound caused Maggie’s toes to curl in her boots.

Something was wrong. Rebecca’s pains had started before the sun graced the sky that day, yet still there was no baby as the moon rose above them. Gwen, always the stalwart one, suddenly appeared unsettled and her directions to Rebecca seemed more frantic than direct. Maggie swallowed hard at the sight of Gwen’s hands covered in bright red blood.

As Rebecca collapsed back against the pillows, Maggie grabbed Gwen’s wrist. When Gwen’s sad green eyes met her own, Maggie knew her suspicion was correct. Rebecca had been bleeding for the last hour, and the trickling flow showed no sign of stopping.

“She needs to push. The babe must come out, it’s right there!” Gwen said to Maggie’s unasked question. “You sit behind her, make her sit up. Hold her legs, it’ll help the wean come down.”

Maggie pushed herself behind Rebecca and did as Gwen commanded. She put her hands on Rebecca’s knees and drew them back, despite the moan of resistance Rebecca offered. Rebecca’s head lolled back onto Maggie’s shoulder, her eyes staring blankly up at her friend.

“Only a few more pushes, the baby’s almost here,” Maggie murmured. She felt Rebecca’s body shudder with the onset of another contraction.

“Again! Oh, I see the head, one more push, girl!” Gwen shouted.

Rebecca leaned forward suddenly as if she regained her strength, screaming long and hard with the last push she could tolerate. Tears coursed down Gwen’s face as the babe slid into her arms, and when they heard the throaty cry of healthy newborn they all broke into sobs.

“I did it,” Rebecca whispered, a smile creasing her lips. Maggie kissed her cheek, hugging her tightly as she helped her friend lay back in the bed. Gwen cleaned and wrapped the squealing babe then placed the infant gently in Rebecca’s arms.

“A boy. A fine son fer yer man,” Gwen announced.

“He’s perfect,” Maggie added. She tucked the blanket down at the babe’s chin so they could look properly at his face. He had large round eyes, staring up calmly at them as if he wondered what all the fuss was about. When he opened his mouth to yawn, tears streaked down Rebecca’s face.

“Do ye know how much I wanted ye?” Rebecca said softly as she stared at her son. Maggie helped her put the boy to her breast, and Rebecca smiled when he latched on with a hearty suck. The babe made soft snoring sounds as he fed, taking his fill for some time before Rebecca laid her head back on her pillow. “You look just like your father,” she whispered.

She was right. With a swatch of thick black hair and a set of the darkest eyes Maggie had ever seen on a newborn, the boy was the image of his father. The infant stared solemnly up at his mother, eyes wide and soulful beyond what a newborn should possess.

Maggie drew back away from the bed, giving her friend some space with her child. She knew better than anyone how little time a woman actually could keep her son beside her. Now that Malcolm was weaned, it would not be long before he joined the men in their duties and learned the ways of the village. If Makedewa was anything like his brother, Maggie knew Rebecca would be seeing her son grow up faster than she could blink.

Gwen remained at the end of the bed, delivering the afterbirth and massaging the new mother’s belly. Maggie assumed her aunt was just cleaning up, but when Gwen’s face tightened and her lips pursed into a line a surge of unease shivered over her skin. Gwen should be happy now that the babe had arrived healthy, shouldn’t she?

“What is it?” Maggie asked. Gwen shook her head, as if to herself, then pushed a bundle of bloody furs onto the floor. Blood pooled on the bed beneath Rebecca, so much that it dripped off the side onto the soiled pile at Gwen’s feet.

“Sister, would ye take him for a bit? I think I shake too much, I might drop him,” Rebecca asked with a tiny laugh. “I doona see myself having as many weans as ye, if this is what one wee mite does to me,” she added. Her head fell back onto the pillows and her lids closed over her weary eyes as Maggie took the babe from her.

“Of course I’ll hold him. Just until you’re steady again,” Maggie replied. Rebecca smiled at that, and Maggie could not help but notice her lips had taken on a bluish tinge. In fact, her once rosy skin seemed flat and much too pale, as if the life was draining from her with each moment.

And it was.

When Gwen met her gaze again over Rebecca’s still body, the reality of what was about to happen numbed her.

“It willna stop. There’s too much blood,” Gwen said softly. Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut at Gwen’s declaration, and a tear streaked down her cheek.

“I know,” Rebecca whispered in return. Gwen continued to massage Rebecca’s belly with long strokes, pushing her fists into the new mother’s soft skin. It did little to stem the bleeding.

“It will stop, it will,” Maggie said, clutching the newborn in her arms. Gwen shook her head, tears staining her cheeks.

“We must send fer her husband. Stay here, I’ll find him,” Gwen muttered. She clutched her arms around her full waist as she rose as if comforting herself to the task. The older woman wiped her bloodied hands on her apron and left without another glance at Rebecca.

“Shh now, sister. Bring him to me. I should like to see him again,” Rebecca said. Her face seemed caught in a grimace, her teeth biting down into her lower lip as tears continued to fall from her shining eyes. She tried to lift her hand, but it fell weakly to her side. “Please…wipe my face. I canna let my husband see me so.”

Maggie dutifully sat down next to her friend, blotting at her pale skin to dry the dampness. Even as her fingers were tinged blue, and her neck looked mottled with splotches along the collar of her shift. Rebecca knew she was fading, and it tore at Maggie’s heart to see her friend so calm as she faced the other side.

“Put him next to me, so I might warm him,” Rebecca asked. Maggie placed the swaddled babe gently beside her, tucking the child in next to his mother.

“Here, he’s right here,” Maggie replied.

“Make sure he’s warm. Ye’ll see to it, won’t ye? That he’s always warm?” she asked. Maggie pressed her face into Rebecca’s hair and clutched her tight. Did Rebecca truly understand she was bleeding too much? Did she accept there was nothing they could do to stop it?

“Of course. Of course I will,” she promised. Maggie wondered what was keeping Gwen from finding Makedewa as her resolve to be strong broke into tiny fragments. When Rebecca let out a long sigh and grew quiet Maggie bit her own lip to muffle her sob, yet Rebecca’s chest continued to rise and fall with her shallow breaths.

How could this be happening? Women didn’t have to die in childbirth! Why did they have to sit back and watch it happen, without interference? What was the good of having magical blood if she could do nothing with it?

Malcolm’s blood was too old to help Rebecca.

There was nothing in her power to do to help her friend.

Maggie looked up when Winn pushed open the door. He glanced down briefly at the tangle of bloodied furs at her feet and then shifted his blue eyes to hers. His throat was tight, his face carefully composed as Makedewa came into the room with Chetan.

Makedewa shrugged off the hand that Winn placed on his shoulder and sank down onto his knees beside Rebecca. He stared silently at her for a long moment until her eyes fluttered open and he kissed her gently on her clasped hands.

Maggie felt Winn’s hand at her waist and she let him lead her from the room. Chetan nodded as they passed by, crouched down on his haunches by the doorway as he watched Makedewa. The sound of Rebecca’s voice was too faint to hear, only a whisper left between the two lovers as they held each other.

Makedewa

HE PLACED HIS HANDS over hers. Although there was sweat on her brow, her skin was not warm, but she smiled at him despite any discomfort she felt. He felt her attempt to squeeze his hand, so he gathered her fingers between his palms and shook his head.

“Rest, chulentet,” he said. “Close your eyes, I will stay here with you.”

Her body relaxed, her head falling back onto the pillow as she uttered a sigh. Strands of her golden hair stuck to her face, so he gently brushed the tendrils away. He needed to see her clearly, every bit of her sweet heart-shaped face. If ever he had known another’s soul, it was hers, and if by looking into her eyes he might find some truth, then he must look.

Gwen said Rebecca was too far gone.

Gwen must be wrong.

“Our son is perfect,” she said softly.

Makedewa did not look at the babe. There would be time for that later, when her strength returned and they could tend to the child together. Until then he could not bear to consider the boy in her arms, lest he linger on the anger at that small spirit for draining the life from the woman he loved.

“Let Gwen take him,” Makedewa said, his voice more gruff that he intended. “Gwen –”

“No, leave him. Please,” Rebecca insisted. She tried to sit up, causing his heart to clench as she faltered and fell back down. He took her in his arms, ignoring the little beast swaddled at her side.

“Let him stay, but you must rest. I need my wife at my side again.”

“Husband,” she whispered. “I must tell ye –”

“Tell me nothing –”

“The life we have, this life we have made – it is so precious to me. When I was broken, ye made me whole. I have lived a beautiful life,” she whispered, “Because of ye.”

When she grimaced, he realized he clutched her too hard, so he slid down onto the bed beside her. Her body surrendered, molding against his, tucked into his chest where she belonged. Slick with sweat, her forehead rested in the crook of his arm, her flesh clammy despite his efforts to warm her. She hated being cold. He must make her warm, and then she would feel better.

“You will live your life at my side,” he insisted, his voice hoarse.

For a long moment, she did not answer, her eyes closed as her mouth fell slightly open. Finally, with a sudden burst of strength she stirred, clutching his tunic with her blue-tinged fists.

“Please, stay with me,” she said.

“Always,” he replied.

He meant it.

Makedewa held her long after the breath left her body. If he did not let her go, she could not leave him.

Maggie

The men stayed away from Gwen’s dwelling while the women tended to cleaning up. They were all accustomed to their duties and expected to carry on, each member of the community pulling together to finish the task. The sounds of muffled sobs littered the air inside the longhouse as they worked, scattered among the scent of childbirth and blood.

Maggie patted Gwen’s hand and tilted her head, giving her aunt notice that she needed a moment. Gwen nodded, and Maggie wiped her hands on her apron and left. Away from Rebecca’s shrouded body. Away from the sweet woman who had called Maggie sister.

Away from the squalling babe in the cradle who would never know his mother.

Although the Northern Hall was quiet, Maggie imagined the men must be gathered there with Makedewa. Wishing to feel the crisp night air across her face, she pushed her wool hood off her head and took a deep breath.

Oh, Rebecca, she thought. It was so unfair, so wrong.

The courtyard was empty save for a lone man who sat by the well. He was not difficult to make out, sitting on the edge of the well with his face in his hands. The fur mantle shrouded his slumped shoulders, and while his face was difficult to see in the moonlight, she noted the glimmer of dampness on his cheeks.

In his own way, Cormaic had cared for Rebecca. Despite his brawn, there was a gentle side to him, one he let loose around those he cared for. When Rebecca married Makedewa, it was Cormaic at her side pledging to remain her friend. It was Cormaic who honored her by making Makedewa fight for her hand. Whatever feelings he had for her he kept silent, supporting her choice and giving every outward appearance of acceptance.

Maggie gently touched his mane of copper hair. He uttered a deep sigh but did not look up, keeping his face buried in his massive hands. For want of knowing how to comfort him, she remained silent, merely sitting down beside her cousin. She looped her arm through his elbow and laid her head against his shoulder, feeling tears slide down her cheeks as he shuddered.

Finally he placed his hand over hers. A slight squeeze, enough to acknowledge the pain they shared. He raised his head and stared off into the sky, wiping the back of his hand over his face.

“She was not mine to mourn, but still…still it pains me,” he said quietly.

“I know,” she whispered.

His jaw tightened and he sat up straighter.

“Is that Makedewa?” he asked.

Maggie turned to see who he referred to, and sure enough, it was Makedewa stalking across the yard toward them.

“I thought he was with his brothers,” she replied. As he drew near, the look on his face sent a current of despair down deep in her bones. Whether it was grief that drove him or anger she did not know, but from him she knew to expect anything.

She stood up and walked to meet him, concern winning out over fear. Although he had not yet held his son, she hoped he might remedy that and find some comfort in the child Rebecca had wanted so desperately.

“I – I’m going back to help Gwen. Your son –”

“Heal her,” he interrupted, grabbing her wrist. “Use your magic, use the Bloodstone. Heal her as you healed me once.”

His grip was on the edge of painful, but she tried to ignore the sting as she looked into his desperate face. His mouth was set firm, his breath coming in short bursts. Black eyes reflected his darkness, and with a sickly feeling of recognition, she saw the beast within him surge to the surface.

“I – I can’t,” she stammered. He knew as well as she did that only the newborns of her line held that power. The power to heal was a sacred gift, one that was too potent to carry as one aged. It was Dagr’s blood that had saved Makedewa’s life once, and now all the Blooded MacMhaolians were past that time. The only way she could heal death would be to give all of her blood, and as such, her life.

“You cannot? Or you will not?” he asked.

“Let her go,” Cormaic growled, his voice surfacing at her side.

“Makedewa,” she said softly. He was her husband’s brother, her family. He would not hurt her. Or would the grief drive him to place he could not return from?

“You saved my life once,” he hissed. “Why? So I should live without her?” She felt the sting of his fingers as he clenched her wrist, but it was the desperate depths of his black eyes that kept her attention. She tried not to move, afraid her efforts would send him further over the edge.

“We all love you,” she said, at loss to give him any sensible answer.

“I have nothing.”

“You have a son,” she whispered. His eyes narrowed.

“I only wanted her,” he replied.

Cormaic placed his hand over Makedewa’s, and chaos broke loose as she was jerked free. She hit the ground bottom first, scraping her palms on the stony earth as she was shoved away from the melee.

She winced as Makedewa threw a punch, landing it squarely in Cormaic’s ribs. Cormaic bent over at the blow and rammed his shoulder into Makedewa’s gut, sending both men crashing to the ground. They rolled together, entwined in a knot of flailing arms and kicking legs, each striving for the upper hand in a battle no one was meant to win.

“Stop it!” she shouted to no response. They were too lost in the fight, too embroiled in pummeling each other. She heard shouts from the Northern Hall as the two men continued wrestling, and her breath caught in her chest when Makedewa rose above Cormaic with his knife drawn.

“No!” she cried.

“I’ll kill you,” Makedewa growled, his brow dripping with sweat and blood. Cormaic was bested for the moment but he was not a man to underestimate; both men were bloodied and bruised.

Moonlight glanced off the blade in Makedewa’s hand. When Makedewa pressed the knife beneath his chin, Cormaic slowly let his head fall back.

“Kill me then,” Cormaic said, the words ground out between gritted teeth. “Do it! Release yer burden. It willna bring her back.”

At that, Makedewa pulled away, falling onto his haunches next to Cormaic. He hovered for a moment then scrambled to his feet, staring first at Cormaic and then at Maggie. He took a step backward and stumbled a pace, righting himself as he looked at the blade in his hand. His eyes widened and he swallowed, as if seeing the weapon for the first time.

His haunted eyes met hers. The knife slipped from his hand, impaled in the dirt at his feet. His lips parted as if he meant to speak, but his voice failed to surface.

She watched silently as he turned and left.

“Here. Yer bleeding,” Cormaic said. The sound of fabric tearing was dull, muted by the ache in her chest. Cormaic pressed the makeshift bandage to her scraped hand. She had not noticed she bled until the sting of the cloth hit her palms. When she looked up at Cormaic, she was relieved to see he was bruised but otherwise intact.

“What happened here?” Winn asked as he arrived with the other men. She watched as Makedewa disappeared into the woods and she knew Winn saw him as well. When he moved to follow, she grabbed his hand.

“Let him go,” she said softly.

He turned back to her as if to protest, but then his eyes fell on the bloodied cloth she pressed to her hand. As he inspected the wound, she closed her eyes briefly and leaned into him.

“Was it him? Did he do this?” Winn demanded. Her voice faltered in her dry throat, the urge to deny it strong. As much as Makedewa had frightened her, it was clear he suffered. When she shook her head in denial, Winn clenched his hands on her shoulders.

“Cormaic?”

Winn’s voice did not waver. Erich joined them, and she spotted Chetan standing by the wood line.

“Aye. It was him.” Cormaic paused, his green eyes meeting hers before he answered. “He was not himself,” he added.

Winn sent a silent message to Chetan with a slight nod of his head, and Chetan disappeared into the woods.

“I’m going back to the longhouse,” Maggie murmured.

Winn dropped his hands away from her.

“Have Gwen tend your wound,” he said. “And I will join you soon.”

“All right,” she agreed.

Maggie left while the men stayed behind. It was up to Winn to decide what to do for his brother, and for once, she was glad to follow her husband’s orders.

She found Gwen alone in her longhouse, rocking the baby as she sat by the fire. Maggie’s uncle was a skilled craftsman, constructing the rocking chairs she described from the future with only her description to work from. A rocker sat by nearly every hearth in the village, and each time she spotted one she was reminded of where she came from.

“How is he?” she asked quietly. Gwen gazed down at his face, smiling as she answered.

“Fine fer now. But he willna live if we cannot feed him. He canna survive on water and mash, not now. Maybe if he was a mite older, but…” her voice trailed off. Maggie swallowed hard at her aunt’s blatant assessment of the situation. Gwen knew the infant would not survive without milk, and she made no bones about it. To her, it was simply a fact of life.

“We can send to the Nansemond for help. They must have someone who can nurse him,” Maggie answered. Gwen shook her head sadly.

“It will be two days before they could return with a woman, if one agrees to it. It’s too long. Perhaps we should just send the babe to them, and let his father come for him if he pleases.”

The child opened his mouth into a yawn, and then released a tiny cry. Patting his bottom, Gwen soothed him back to slumber.

“Gwen?” Maggie said. Lost in her own heartache, she finally felt strong enough to ask the questions she kept buried. She needed to know more about the magic in her blood – how it worked, how she could wield it. How could she be useful to anyone without the knowledge to control her own power?

“Hmm?” Gwen replied.

“I need answers. I know you think you’re protecting us by never speaking of the how to use the magic, but you’re not. I need to know how it works. I need to know how to control it, how to use it,” Maggie said. “Please. Please tell me.”

Gwen did not stop rocking, nor did she raise her head. Her cheeks, however, betrayed her discomfort with Maggie’s demand, and a flush blazed across her skin. She shook her head, as if to herself, and then let out a short sigh.

“Yer own mother died using that bloody magic. Is it worth that much to ye?” Gwen asked.

Maggie swallowed hard but nodded. If she could bring Rebecca back, yes, it was worth it.

“Yes. It is. Tell me what you know, and let me decide for myself.”

“She was barely grown when she met yer father,” Gwen said. Her voice lowered a bit and she cleared her throat. “Yer father dinna tell her who he really was, and when she found out it broke her heart. I think she never did forget him, even when Dagr took her away to your time.”

“I can’t remember her at all,” Maggie whispered.

“Ye have her look about ye. It’s quite clear,” she added, raising an eyebrow to glare at Maggie. “She was young – and foolish. Ye have that part of her as well.”

Maggie bit her lower lip but said nothing.

“Dagr told me Esa tried to return here from yer place, but she went to the wrong time. She met herself here, and that is why she died. One cannot return to a time once lived. It’s just not natural.”

“But why did she die?” Maggie asked.

Gwen stopped rocking and leaned forward in her chair.

“A soul cannot beat in two hearts at once. If ye go back to a time and find ye face yerself, then yer own heart will stop. She made a mistake, and she paid for it with her life.”

“Wait. A mistake?”

“Some of us still know the runes. If ye paint the runes on yer skin, ye can make it take ye where ye need. ‘Tis the only way to truly control that bloody stone. Else it takes ye where it wants ye to be, and then yer truly and rightfully fooked,” Gwen said. “Yer ma had not yet learned the runes. Old Malcolm knew Esa was not ready.”

“So my raven didn’t bring me here?” Maggie sputtered, still grasping to understand. If the magic could be controlled, directed, then there was some use to it she could wield. Could she change what had happened to Rebecca?

“Of course it did. All those trinkets are marked with a rune. They link them together. That’s why Benjamin dinna travel far when he tried. Ye gave him his eagle, and it was tied here, to the others.”

“My raven. And the other ones Erich made.”

Gwen nodded. “It helps when one gets lost. ‘Tis easy to find yerself trapped and alone when ye mettle with time.”

Maggie glanced at the figurines on the hearth. She noticed a few new ones in the bunch, all made in the image of an animal. A deer, a turtle, and a fox graced the ledge, each a tiny replica made with great care.

“So my mother was a fool. And what of my father, Gwen? Why is he never spoken of?” Maggie asked quietly, keeping her gaze steady on the figurines. Afraid to look at what she knew would be condemnation from Gwen, she tried to keep her voice steady with her demands.

Instead of Gwen’s response, the gravelly voice of her uncle cut in.

“Because he was a Sturlsson and our enemy,” Erich said. Maggie turned to face him, swallowing hard as she noted her husband beside her uncle.

“It’s my right to know,” she said, trying to keep her voice from wavering. She raised her chin a notch, her hands falling to her sides where she clutched her gown.

“Aye, it is. But what do ye mean to do with this knowledge, niece, if it not something foolish? I will tell ye what ye wish to know, if I have yer promise not to act on it. There’s a reason we fall under command of the Neilsson Chief, a good reason,” Erich said. His shoulder sagged as he removed his weapons, laying them across the table before he sat down. He motioned to the bench at his side and she took his invitation, sliding stiffly down beside him. Winn moved closer to the fire but remained standing, watching them in silence.

“I won’t do anything foolish,” Maggie muttered. She was incensed when everyone in the room laughed, even Winn, who coughed and tried to pretend he had not joined in. Erich, however, chuckled and sputtered in his amusement, finally taking up a mug of ale to clear his throat.

“Oh, no, ye’d never leap with yer heart first. Not my niece,” he muttered. Winn looked at the floor, hiding his grin.

“Yer like yer mother, through and through,” Erich added, his voice leveling off to a more thoughtful tone. He wiped a trickle of mead from his greying beard and leaned back. “Her heart was kind, as I know is yers. I loved my sister, but for the Gods, she was a stubborn one! She met the Sturlsson boy and hid it from us, and we dinna find out until it was too late.”

“Too late?” Maggie asked. Erich nodded, and Gwen looked away.

“When yer father revealed his plan to my sister, the deed was done. She was with child, and it broke her heart to know he only meant to use her blood for his own gain.”

Maggie glanced at Winn. Quiet throughout the conversation, Winn’s jaw seemed tight and he would not meet her gaze. With a sickly feeling, Maggie realized that this was not news to her husband. She wondered how long he had known, how long he had chosen to keep the details to himself. True, she rarely spoke of her parents, but only because they did not seem real to her. She was not a woman who had grown up longing for the care of her missing parents; rather, she had learned early on to harden her heart to those who had abandoned her and take comfort in the love she was given by her grandfather and Marcus. For her entire life, it had been enough, but now, standing before her uncle, she was taken over by the desire to know them.

To know her mother. To know her father. Perhaps it was because she was a mother to her own children, or because she was a wife to her husband. Her lifeline was entwined with that of her kin, and even though she could not miss a mother she had never known, she felt some kinship with the image of her. It irritated her to hear her uncle thought her foolish like her mother, but on some level, it warmed her. At least she shared something of the woman.

“What did he plan to do?” she asked quietly. Winn looked up at her question and glanced at Erich. Erich stood up from the bench before he answered, facing the fire with his back to them.

“He wanted yer mother’s blood to take him back in time,” Erich took a swallow from his mug, then spit into the fire. “He planned to take her back, see ye born, then use yer blood to change his father’s death. Then he would have control of her, and all the Clans would bow to him. In that place in time, the Chief that held a Blooded One had all the power.”

So her father had used her mother, in one of the most heartbreaking ways a man could use a woman. Her fist tightened as she stared at her uncle, and she tasted a stab of that betrayal her mother must have felt. To know she was only a means to an end must have been devastating, and then to be left carrying his child? Well, Maggie could not condemn her mother. Even knowing that truth, the fact that own father was a bloody scheming scoundrel was difficult to process.

Erich and Gwen told her often she was like her mother. Yet the burning question in her mind was how much she was like her father.

“Why not just have my mother take him back to prevent his father’s death? Then he wouldn’t need the blood of a newborn,” Maggie muttered. It was more of an observation than anything, but Erich made a low snorting sound at her question.

“Have ye heard nothing? One canna go back to a time once lived. Yer father couldna go back to his kin, fer he was there with his da when he died. Yer father is a brazen swine, but he’s a smart one. He would never risk his own life if he could serve up yers instead.” Erich ran a thick hand over his head with a sigh. “If ye meet yerself in another time, girl, best ye run the o'er way,” he said.

“You’ve said that before to me, but why?” she demanded. “If you teach me to use the runes, I can control it. I can go back exactly where I need to, I can change things – I can make it better. Why do we just – just sit here, doing nothing? Why can’t I try?”

Erich turned back to face her, but it was her husband’s voice that broke the silence.

“Because I will not allow it,” Winn said quietly. “The desire of one man – or woman – is not enough reason.”

“It’s not just me,” Maggie whispered, struggling to control her tone. She felt a flush rise in her neck and she straightened her back. “Are there any of us who do not want Rebecca back?”

“All of us do. Yet the decision is mine, and it is made,” Winn replied. “And you will not interfere in the matters of men.”

Gwen’s eyes widened and Erich sat back down beside Maggie. Feeling the beast of frustration rise in her belly, she stared long at her husband. The fact that Winn seemed to know much more about her blood than she was privy to was a topic they would discuss later – alone. Yet his unyielding command was something else entirely and it took all of her self-control to steady herself without a harsh retort.

“Ye see, niece, I fear ye knowing how to bend this magic. It’s a dangerous thing. If ye let yer heart lead ye, ye might use it when ye should not. And if that happens, then it shall be my fault.” Erich turned and reached for her, taking her hand. He urged her fist open, tracing his thumb over her scar. “I can show ye how to use the runes, but to what end? If ye make a mistake and I lose ye…well, I have enough death to bear o'er my back. I’d not take on anymore, and if ye could oblige me on that, I’d be a grateful man.”

She closed her eyes, squeezing his hand. Words would not come, her throat dry and her lips creased in a tight line.

“I can’t help thinking about it. Is it so wrong to want to do something, to make it all better? Rebecca was my – my friend. And Makedewa…I’m afraid for him,” she said softly.

“Even if you went back, what could you change?” Winn asked. “You could not stop the bleeding, even if you knew it would happen. Maybe you could keep her from marrying him, and then change destiny for all of us. Where would it end? And where would you begin?”

She stared at her husband, unable to make a reply. He was right, of course. She could not have changed the outcome, no matter how much she knew of what was to come. Saving Makedewa’s life with blood from Dagr’s heel was one thing; going back in time to change an entire sequence of events was another entirely.

The sharp cry of the newborn pierced the silence, reminding them all that there was yet another future to consider. Gwen patted and rocked him, but the boy would not be consoled, the demands of his empty belly much stronger than his need to sleep. Although it had been a few days since she weaned her own son, Maggie felt the tingle of answer in her body at the cry. There was something clear about a child’s hungry wail, one that stirred a mother to her core.

In the absence of his own mother, there was a void to fill. If she could not use her power to change things, if there was truly nothing she could do to bring her friend back, well, then at least there was the life before them to watch over.

As Maggie took the newborn from Gwen’s arms, she looked down on him and smiled. Yes, she thought. This was something she could do. She could care for him. She could feed him.

And in some small way, perhaps, she might change his future.

Winn

Winn settled back into his chair in the Northern Hall, listening to the murmur of Erich’s voice as he reported on the status of the village supplies. His thoughts were distracted over his brother’s absence, and it was with a heavy heart that he carried on with his duties. Although Makedewa had only been gone for a week, Winn feared he might never see his youngest brother again. The warrior had been careful to cover evidence of his path, disguising his trail so well that even Chetan could not track him.

When Makedewa wished to return, he would. Until that time, there was nothing Winn could do to help him. Life in the village continued on and the demands of the people who lived there did not diminish. There were mouths to be fed, a home to protect, and a new young life that depended on them. Winn found his duties a reprieve from the worry over his brother.

“…hunt for perhaps two days. That should suffice, I think. My lord?”

Winn squinted at Erich, aware he had not heard most of the older man’s words. Shaking his head a bit, Winn cleared his throat and nodded.

“Yes. Hunt for two days? If you think it needs be, then we shall make it so. I trust you will gather the men?” Winn answered.

“I shall. And on the matter of the wean? Ye shall take him as yer own?”

“The child?” Winn asked, aware that he appeared addled. It occurred to him that he had missed more of the conversation than he previously thought.

“Yer brother’s child, my lord. Yer wife is here to request yer blessing.”

Winn stood up when Maggie was ushered into the Great Hall. In her arms she held Makedewa’s son, swaddled so tightly in his bundling he remained soundless and still. When his wife kneeled before him and he saw her red-rimmed eyes, his first reflex was to drop to his knees beside her and comfort her. Yet with a glance around the hall he could see the men were watching him; this was some sort of test, and Winn felt helpless at distinguishing what was required of him.

To comfort his wife would show weakness. To ask others to make a decision would make him powerless. If only he had any idea what they wanted from him, he could try to make a ruling.

“Speak, wife,” he said, in the most even tone he could manage.

“I ask you to look on this child with no mother…and no father to claim him,” she said softly, her voice barely audible to his ear. “I ask you to wash him, dress him, and give him a name.”

Winn grimaced as he looked down on his wife. He did not like the fear spread across her face, nor the way her hands were clenched so tightly around the child. To see his brave woman in such a state riled him to the core, and be it his lack of Norse upbringing or his flaws as a leader, he thrust away his pride and went down to one knee in front of her. He thought his heart might crack when he reached for the babe and Maggie pulled away, but suddenly what was being asked of him became clear.

“Please,” she whispered. “Claim him. Give him a name. I cannot turn him out. I’m begging you. Please.”

Through dry lips he murmured a word of consolation to her in his native Paspahegh and she nodded, relief flooding her face. When he reached toward her again, Maggie placed the child in his arms. Winn looked down upon his nephew, a child he would now call son, and he looked at the woman he loved more than his own life.

“Wife,” he murmured. “You beg of no man.”

He rose to his feet with the newborn in his arms, letting the swaddling cloth fall to the floor. The child squealed at the intrusion but Winn still held him up for all to see, raising the squirming mite above his head.

“I claim this child, son of my brother, now son of my heart. His name –”

He paused and glanced down at Maggie, who whispered, “Daniel.”

“– his name is Daniel. Let him live a long life!”

It never occurred to him he would need to claim his own nephew, but Winn knew he had made the right choice when he finished to cries of “Daniel, Daniel!” Maggie held a copper basin as he bathed the crying child, and then together they wrapped Daniel in fresh swaddling clothes. Winn made the sign of the hammer over the wean’s head and the ceremony was complete; Winn claimed the boy, and as thus, the child was one of them.

“Thank you,” Maggie said softly. Winn placed his hand on her waist and she leaned slightly into him, the child wedged between them.

“Have no doubt,” he replied. “What you ask of me, I give it gladly. Your fear wounds me, ntehem.”

“I’m so sorry. Finola told me I must present him to you, or he could be cast out with no one to claim him. And it had to be you – a man – I mean, I’m not allowed to claim him. I would have, but it’s not in the rules, and –”

“Ah, enough,” Winn said. A smile turned up the corners of her lips, and as difficult as it was for his wife to show deference, he grinned when she bowed to him. “Go now,” he added. “Take the boy to join our children. I shall be finished here soon.”

Maggie nodded. She gathered the child snug to her breast and turned to go, but not before glancing up at her uncle. Erich responded with a slight dip of his head toward her, the edge of his mouth tight in what might have been a grin. Winn briefly wondered what his MacMillan kin had been plotting behind his back, but dismissed the thought as fast as it surfaced. Let Maggie and Erich have their victories; Winn was glad to oblige them.

The scream of steel suddenly pierced the air and every man in the Northern Hall responded in kind. It was Cormaic who drew first as he stood guarding the entrance, his broadsword unsheathed and held in readiness. Maggie, who was near the door, was thrust behind her cousin where she had the good sense to remain as newcomers approached. Winn stood up and was immediately flanked by the Norse and Indian men of the village, with Erich barking a terse command to be ready in his foreign tongue.

“Goor viroar!” Erich grunted.

Winn stayed on the dais only so that he could see over the heads of his men as visitors entered the hall. When he noted the leader of the group he realized why his men were so unsettled.

It had been years since a Powhatan emissary had stood before the Norse. And if Winn recalled his father’s family history correctly, he suspected the last time the two groups collided it had ended in the near extermination of the Norsemen from the lands of Tsenacommacah before Winn was even born.

One warrior stepped forward from the group of five. Dressed in the simple breechcloth and leggings most warriors wore, the man’s attire held few clues to his identity. His skin, however, was littered with a swirl of dark tattoos that decorated a path from his neck to his waist, giving Winn the impression it was only a common man who stood before him. Those who accompanied the leader held the same look about them, and it was with some relief that Winn noticed it. He decided to greet them with a simple welcome friends and let them proceed from there.

“Sesegan, wìdjìkiwe,” Winn called out. Erich muttered an oath in Norse at the use of the friendly Powhatan greeting, but Winn ignored him. Winn switched to English so that most in the Northern Hall could understand the exchange. “Who are you, and what brings you here?”

“I am Pìmiskodjsì, sent by Weroance Opechancanough,” the leader replied in a stilted tone. “We come to speak with Winkeohkwet, nephew of our Great Leader.”

“Then you have found him,” Winn said. He met Cormaic’s eye across the room and gave the younger man a nod. Cormaic obeyed the command and lowered his weapon, the other men following his lead. Winn waited to speak until Erich relaxed his sword hand and then he sat back down in his chair. “What need does my uncle have for his nephew? It has been many years since he sought my counsel.”

“He sends these gifts to show his favor,” Pìmiskodjìsì said. Two of his companions came forth, placing bundles of hide-wrapped gifts before Winn. “For you and for your Red Woman.”

Winn nodded his acceptance, but his entire body tensed at the mention of Maggie. The warriors obviously had been instructed to deliver the gifts, yet the mention of his wife as the Red Woman was no doubt purposeful. It was very much like his uncle to remind Winn there were thousands of Powhatans ready to strike down a Blooded One upon a single command.

Winn did not need a reminder, nor did he take kindly to threats.

“Tell my uncle I thank him for his gifts. Tell him he need not thank my wife again for saving his life.”

Pìmiskodjìsì met Winn’s gaze. One of the Powhatan placed a hand on the knife sheathed at his waist, and Pìmiskodjìsì grunted a command at the man. The man dropped his fist.

“Your uncle will be pleased to hear his gifts were favored,” Pìmiskodjìsì said. “He sends us on another matter as well. The English are as rodents, spreading in number. They drive our tribes west and claim the lands for their king.”

“I know this,” Will replied tersely. His patience was ending after the veiled threat at his wife, and he was in no mood to hear what he already knew. “What does my uncle ask of me?”

“Our Weroance asks that you send five of your strongest men to join us. He has need of more warriors for the journey we must make.”

So it was war Opechancanough planned, the true intent behind the gifts and threats. For years Winn had kept his people away from the skirmishes, away from the disputes. Although he would gladly kill any English that warranted it, Winn knew the best way for his family to survive was to stay out of the fray. In the Great Assault of 1622, hundreds of English had been slaughtered, yet even that did not stop their expansion for long. Shiploads of English arrived from across the Great Sea, replenishing the numbers and bringing more weapons. Retaliation from both sides left more Powhatan dead than English; for what purpose, Winn did not know.

What did it mean to fight, if it meant your family lay dead before you? What good was land stained with the blood of the ancestors?

Opechancanough viewed Winn’s neutrality as weakness; Winn saw it as the only way to survive.

He leaned forward in his chair as he spoke so that there was no confusion as to the intent of his message.

“Tell my uncle I have no warriors to spare. Tell him I thank him for his gifts, and I wish him the blessings of the Creator.”

Winn’s men shifted stance, closing in their ranks around him. The Powhatan warriors bowed their heads in deference and turned toward the door. As Pìmiskodjìsì crossed the threshold, the decorated warrior paused. The dark tattoo on his jaw stretched tight as the man shot Winn a sly grin.

“Your brother told us you would not fight. He told us you have abandoned your people. Opechancanough will not be pleased Makedewa spoke true. Many blessings, Winkeokwhet. Be proud your brother is there to slay the English for you.”

The last of the pronouncement slammed through Winn, but he would not show the Powhatan his weakness. He nodded stiffly to the warriors and motioned to his men to let them pass. As they left, Winn leaned back in his chair.

So Makedewa had proclaimed an alliance.

Winn glanced at his wife who still stood behind Cormaic. She clutched the swaddled child to her chest, her green eyes shadowed in confusion as she met his gaze.

Makedewa made his choice, and there was nothing more they could do but carry on. Winn’s life and that of those he loved hinged on the decisions he made as a leader. He had no luxury of chasing after his wayward brother, of asking him to return to his family. Winn wondered if the killing would dampen the hate inside of Makedewa, or if it might consume what remained of his soul.

It was a question Winn feared would be answered soon enough.

Winn unclenched his fingers and gave a slight flick of his wrist. Erich took note and gave Winn his attention.

“Speak on the next matter,” Winn said.

He settled back on the chair and placed his hands on the armrests. The sting of splintered wood cut into his palm, reminding him that he was yet still only a man, powerless to stop what tale history had already written.

Maggie

The babe latched onto her breast, but all she felt was the tug of his hunger and the failure of her body to respond. She closed her eyes to the sensation, begging her body to let the milk flow. Yet no matter what she envisioned, or where she sent her scattered thoughts, it was Rebecca’s face that haunted her thoughts, a ghost that would not be chased away. The boy let out a weak squeal, and she swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. She could feel his frustration, as thick as the despair that rolled through her bones, leaving them both helpless in the face of shared disappointment. She could not give the infant what he needed. The harder she tried, the more she failed, and as his tiny weak hand gripped furtively at her breast she felt the tears slide down her cheeks.

For now, they called him Daniel, but he had no Paspahegh name. There was no one to claim him, with Makedewa still missing in the shadow of Rebecca’s death. If the Norse followed their tradition, the babe would have been set out exposed, left to the fate of the wild to decide if he should live or die. At the time, Maggie had been relieved Winn supported her objection to the old ways, granting her claim to the child. Now as she looked down at his pale face and sunken brown eyes, she wondered if it would not have been kinder to leave him to his fate. After all, a swift death would be preferable to slow starvation. Despite her best intention, she knew he pulled no sustenance from her body. The milk simply would not flow.

As she dipped her head to the rush of tears, she felt a pair of hands take the babe from her arms. It was Winn. He tucked the babe into the crook of his elbow. Too weak to object, little Daniel snuggled close to Winn’s bared chest.

“You’re crying,” he said.

“I can’t give him milk. It just – it just won’t flow. Maybe it’s been too long since Malcolm weaned,” she whispered. Winn’s brows scrunched down and he took her hand in his free one.

“Gwen told me,” he replied.

She nodded, wiped the back of her hand over her damp eyes.

“But there’s no one else. None of the other women have nursed a baby in months. If I can’t do this, he …. he won’t live,” she said.

Winn pulled her to her feet.

“Come with me,” he said simply. She followed, more of duty than desire. Numb with the truth of her failure, knowing the child was suffering for it, it was too much to bear.

Winn led her through the village to the edge of the woods where the bathhouse lay nestled in the mountainside. After he guided her inside he closed the door behind them, and she let him pull her into the warm water as he continued to hold the tiny babe in against his chest.

If her mind had not been so cluttered with grief, she would have objected to soaking her sleeping shift, as she hardly felt up to bathing with him. After all, she had insisted on taking care of the child, and spending time with him as if he might live just seemed a cruel reminder of the inevitable.

The babe let out a muffled squeak as they slipped down into the shallow pool. Winn placed the baby in her arms, and then settled behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her snug against his chest as the hot steam moistened their skin. She could feel his lips near her ear and the way his muscles yielded to surround her, shielding her tenderly within his embrace. The water was a warm clasp, sheltering them, pulling them down to the damp depths where she could feel a trickle of hope.

“I promised Rebecca I would take care of him,” she whispered. The babe stared quietly up at them, his almond-shaped eyes so unnaturally dark for an infant. His gaze was steady, almost knowing, as if he could see through to her heart and know her true intent.

“You will keep that promise,” Winn said softly. From his place behind her, Winn’s legs wrapped around hers and one of his hands slid up. “Close your eyes,” he murmured. “When Makedewa was born, my mother could not feed him. The village women bathed her with warm water until the milk returned. I remember watching them, hoping the Gods would help her and my brother would live.”

She leaned back against him with a sigh as his fingers caressed her torso. At first she did not think it would help, but as he continued to stroke her skin lightly with his fingertips, she realized she was starting to relax.

“The women told my mother to think of her other children, the ones she made strong. They said if she could picture it, the milk would return,” he said softly. “Think of Kwetii, the first time you held her. And of Dagr. You said once he was greedy, like a little piglet, taking more than he needed.”

“Winn, I can’t –”

“Yes,” he insisted. “You can. You will.”

She pictured Kwetii as a newborn, and that precious time where her only tie to survival was what could be found in Maggie’s arms. Then it was Dagr, a robust babe who took greedy satisfaction and never went hungry. Finally, it was Malcolm she saw, the tiny son she feared might not live. Daniel was like her youngest son, she thought. So tiny, so needful. His fist clenched and unclenched as he sucked, and as the warmth of the letdown filled her, she could hear his satisfied suckle.

Winn’s cheek lay pressed to hers, his chin on her shoulder as he watched. There was little she had master of in her life, but this, this giving, it was something she could wield. As the babe finally quieted, her body relaxed back against Winn.

“See?” Winn whispered. “You will feed him, and he will grow strong. Only you can give him this gift, the gift of living. The Gods smile on you now, ntehem,” he said.

Soon the babe stirred, arching his back and pulling away from her. His mouth dropped off from his feeding, staying draped open with a trickle of milk on his chin as he succumbed to slumber. As Winn washed the babe’s face, she realized it was the first time she had heard the child snore.

The babe slept well that night, tucked in next to her between the furs. Maggie woke to Winn’s arms surrounding them both, his large hand keeping them secure in his embrace. She uttered a groan of dismay when Winn stirred and left the warmth of their bed, but smiled at his promise to see her later in the day at the Northern Hall. As he woke Dagr to take with him on a hunt she dozed, and they stumbled about the Longhouse in a sleepy haze as they tried to ready themselves without waking the women. Winn kissed her on the cheek before he left, his fingers brushing gently over Daniel’s head in acknowledgement.

The matter of a Paspahegh name for the boy was something they would need to discuss soon. With Makedewa gone the entire subject seemed in limbo, with neither she nor Winn wanting to take that task from the child’s father. Yet the longer Makedewa stayed away, the less hopeful she felt he would ever return, and the simple fact was that they needed to carry on.

After rising for the day, Maggie took Kyra and the boys to the Northern Hall to join the other women for the morning meal. Malcolm followed his sister, seeming happy to go wherever she might lead him. Gwen was eager to get her hands on the newborn so Maggie handed him over after teasing her aunt a bit. With the hearth fire warming the Longhouse and the women bustling about preparing food, it was a morning like any other.

“Mama, I’ll eat later. I’m gonna go hunt rabbits like Da showed me,” Kyra said. Busy peeling carrots, Maggie glanced at her oldest child. The eleven-year old had been subdued since her adventure into town. Shortly after her dramatic return to the village Rebecca had died, and Maggie felt like Kyra had retreated inside herself somewhat. Normally outspoken and bold, the girl hung back in the shadows more often than not. She stopped playing with the older boys as her father had demanded, but she did not try to socialize with the girls, either. Instead, Kyra stayed close to home and her brothers and moped about as much as a girl her age could muster. The only thing that had caused her to perk up in the last few weeks was Winn talking about taking the boys on a hunting day, but of course, Kyra was crushed when Winn left her behind.

“Why not help me with the cooking, Kwetii?” Maggie called. She wiped her hand on her apron and watched her daughter shrug. Her tangled mane of dark hair fell like a cloak around her face, hiding her eyes, but Maggie could still see her heart shaped lips pursed into a frown.

“Nay. I can hunt as good as Dagr can. He’s only eight,” Kyra muttered.

“Of course you can. I’m sure your Da will take you next time. I’m sure he just thought you might want to spend some time with us women,” Maggie offered.

“Why? So I can act like a lady? I’ll never be a lady, Mama. Never.”

Maggie bit back her smile.

“There’s nothing wrong with being a lady, sweetheart. And it’s something you can’t help, if you’re asking. You’ll grow up whether you want to or not.”

Maggie instantly regretted her carefree response when Kyra’s fists clenched into knots at her sides and her round blue eyes filled with tears. Placing her working knife aside, Maggie wiped her hands and took Kyra into her arms.

“Sweetie, what on earth is going on?” she murmured, kissing her daughter’s forehead. A muffled cry escaped Kyra, and Maggie felt her body shudder.

“I don’t ever wanna grow up. I never want babies, I never want a husband. Not even Morgan!” Krya sobbed. Maggie sighed and held her tighter, rocking her gently as she had when she was a babe.

Gwen and Ellie looked up at them over the steam of the house kettle but did not approach.

“Shh, shh,” Maggie whispered. “Someday you might change your mind on that, but for now you needn’t worry on it.”

“Rebecca died, Mama! She’s dead, all because of–because of that baby!” Kyra insisted.

“It’s not his fault. It’s not anyone’s fault,” Maggie replied, at loss to console her daughter. She wanted to tell her that these things rarely happened. She wanted to tell her it was not normal to die in childbirth. Yet the stark reality of it was that her explanation would be a lie.

Perhaps in the future, women did not routinely die in childbirth. In the seventeenth century, however, it was more likely to happen than not.

“Then why did Uncle Makedewa leave? Why won’t he come home?” Kyra demanded.

“I don’t know, sweetie. I don’t know,” Maggie replied. She wished she knew the answer to that question as well.

“Promise me you’ll never make me get married, Mama. Please.” Kyra fussed like a hummingbird in her arms, her dirt-stained fingers clutching Maggie’s shift.

“Kyra…someday you might feel different.”

The child twisted suddenly away.

“I won’t, Mama. And if ye make me do it, I’ll hate ye. I will. And Da, too!” Kyra shouted. Maggie closed her eye with a sigh as Kyra darted out of the Longhouse, her ermine cape flapping behind her.

When Maggie looked back at the women, Gwen made a shooing motion as she rocked the baby.

“Go on, I’ll see to this wee one,” Gwen said. Elli shook her head and resumed her chores as Maggie left to catch Kyra.

She scooped Malcolm up into her arms and kicked at the dirt with a swipe and a sigh as she walked. It was a juvenile gesture, one more in line with what Kyra would do, but heck if she had any experience with angry adolescent girls. Bereft of a mother and raised by two men, she did not have much insight into how a mother would console a child. She could only do what felt right, try to answer Kyra’s questions, and let the girl know how much she loved her. It seemed the only thing left to do.

As she searched the courtyard for Kyra, her eyes fell on a figure by the corral. Tall and dark haired, his broad shoulders sheltered by a thick wool cape, Maggie did not recognize him right off. She knew the men were hunting, she was sure none had stayed behind except maybe crooked Old Olaf, and he spent most days rocking in a chair next to Finola. Since the tall man tied his mount to a post by the corral with the other horses she did not feel alarmed, but when she saw Kyra approach him, her panic sensors sparked into overdrive. She plunked Malcolm down firmly on the ground next to the well.

“Don’t you move until I come back,” she said, giving him her stern look. Mal grinned in return and she set off to see what business the stranger had in her village.

His back was to her as she approached. Still too far away, she watched him bend down to speak with Kyra. To her dismay, a tentative smile creased Kyra’s face.

When the stranger lifted Kyra onto his horse, Maggie pulled her knife from her pocket and broke into a run.

Benjamin

“There should be no trouble, my lord,” Reinn assured Agnarr.

Benjamin continued working his ledger book, keeping his eyes cast downward as he listened to the conversation. Neither Agnarr nor Reinn made any care to conceal their discussion, yet another plan to drive the Indian tribes further west. Every parcel of land that Agnarr helped clear was another workable piece of property – one that tobacco would grow on, and another means to line his pockets. There was a reason Agnarr was one of the wealthiest citizens in the colony. His willingness to eradicate the natives was matched by none.

“Good. Ye say it is a small village? Send only a few men, then, and leave the rest.” Agnarr leaned back in his thick tufted chair as he answered, taking a long drag from a carved ivory pipe. It was one of the many unique trinkets he confiscated from new arrivals to his port, including his last search of a ship carrying trade goods from the Far East.

“Aye, a small one, but the leader is a fearsome sort. Our Indian tracker says they call him Winkeohkwet – The Raven.”

Benjamin’s hand tightened into a fist beneath the table. He had watched the English destroy village after village, forcing the Indians to move or be moved. Although he knew someday Winn’s village would be in danger, the reality of it hit him like a blow in the gut.

It was time. His debt must be paid, his duty satisfied.

He would not allow Agnarr to harm his kin.

“Oh, fearsome, ye say? Well, shall we make a day of it? I will accompany ye, and we will take a few soldiers as well. What harm can a few arrows be when we have so many muskets to make our persuasion?” Agnarr answered.

“As you wish, my lord,” Reinn agreed. “I will prepare the men.”

Benjamin did not look up as Reinn left the room. Even when Agnarr cleared his throat in that definitive manner that meant he was preparing to speak, Benjamin continued to focus on the ledger numbers on the desk. Never one to be ignored, however, Agnarr was quick to engage Benjamin in a dialogue.

“So it seems I shall be engaged for most of the day. I expect you will keep matters in order here?” Agnarr commented casually, as if his words were mere requests instead of commands. Benjamin nodded, scribbling figures into the ledger book.

“As always,” he answered. He felt his skin prickle at the nape of his neck and the telltale dampness of sweat on his brow. He had to do something, warn the villagers – but how, without arousing Agnarr’s suspicions? Hurriedly he added, “I must retrieve the ledgers from the tavern, but that shall not keep me away for long. Profits were good this quarter, ye shall be pleased with the return.”

“Fair enough,” said Agnarr, standing up from his chair. He glanced at himself in a wall mirror as he turned toward the door, unable to resist smoothing back his elegantly coiffed hair. With a wry grin at his own reflection, he uttered a low chuckle. “And Jora will join us for the evening meal? I do so miss her. It seems you hide her away from me.”

Agnarr’s declaration was grumbled as he admired his own countenance.

“Of course not. I am sure she will be pleased to join us tonight.”

“Good. See that she does.” Agnarr finally abandoned admiring himself and pushed open the door. “Oh, and Benjamin?”

A bead of sweat slid down his face, tickling his ear as it went on its path. He swallowed slowly, trying to ignore the nagging sensation.

“Yes, my lord?” he answered evenly.

“Has my ward been absent for some reason? Perhaps her condition warrants rest?”

Struggling to contain his composure, Benjamin met Agnarr’s gaze across the room.

“My wife was feeling poorly, but she is recovered. It was no matter to worry over, and it is passed now. Ease your mind. Ye need not dwell on it,” he replied. He chose his words with care, giving Agnarr enough information to provide the older man assurance without leading to more questions. Every moment they spent making small talk was keeping him away from helping his brother; Winn needed to be warned of Agnarr’s arrival – and Benjamin was the only one who could do it.

Agnarr nodded, his hint of a grin leveling out into a thin line.

“Until tonight then, my friend.”

When the door closed behind his partner, Benjamin let out a deep breath. He wiped the sweat from his brow and rested his chin on his clasped fists for a moment, knowing he had precious little time to dwell on his worries. He must act and he must do it immediately, lest the life of those he was swore to protect would be in danger.

He shoved away the part of him that said to wait, to gauge his options, to come up with a sensible plan. Instead, he embraced the loyalty that still bound him, the loyalty that would not leave him no matter how many times he stood by and watched Agnarr’s devious deeds.

Jora was dressing when he entered their room and he quickly stepped up behind her to help tighten the stays she struggled with. Her long dark hair brushed his wrists as he tied her, her breath expelling in a squeak when he pulled too harshly.

“I thank ye,” she said, her words strained. He noticed when she placed her hand on her waist, closing his eyes for a moment when her palm slipped down briefly over her lower belly.

“How do ye feel this morn?” he asked.

“I shall abide,” she sniped. He sighed. She did not move away when he placed his hands on her shoulders, and for a moment he thought he felt her lean back into his arms. Yet Jora was stronger than that, and as quick as he had felt her soften to him, she moved away even faster. “’Tis better now that the courses have stopped,” she said softly.

He gripped her shoulders at her words, swallowing back his own grief. It had been more than a week since the loss of the babe. Despite the imminent danger of what the child could mean to Agnarr, Jora had been happy when she told Benjamin the news. She said she saw their future, and despite Benjamin’s fears she knew that someday a dark-eyed little boy would be at Benjamin’s side. Her sight had always led to the truth in the past, something they could rely on to point the way when the path was unclear. This time, however, he wondered if her heart had not led her gift astray.

“I am glad to see ye well,” he replied. At loss to form words that might ease her pain, he stumbled over how to console her. The valley between them was wider than the strain of their recent loss. It was a marriage mottled with mistrust and fear, neither of which he had any notion of how to dispel.

And when Benjamin told her he must leave, he knew it might be the last nail in the coffin of what tenuous bond they still shared.

“Stay here for the day, away from the men. I must leave ye now, but I shall return soon.”

Her shoulders stiffened beneath his fingers as she turned to face him. She did not pull away from his touch, but her chin dipped down and she shook her head a bit, as if to herself.

“How can ye leave now? I know I mean verra little to ye, but ye would let me face him myself –”

Not entirely meaning to, he shook her as he bent to meet her lowered gaze, producing a swell of tears let loose from her round eyes.

“Ye are my wife. I willna let Agnarr harm ye, that is why I ask ye to stay here. He is off with Reinn today on business, but even so, I will rest easy knowing ye are safe in our room.”

“As long as ye rest easy, then I shall do as ye say,” she said. He words were compliant, but her tone was anything but submissive.

“I would not leave ye now if there were another way,” he replied.

“Then I wish ye a speedy return, husband,” she whispered.

He wanted to argue, wanted to hold her, but there was no time for such things and she would not permit his attention in any case. He knew there was something broken inside her and he knew he was responsible for it. Someday he hoped they could mend it – someday when he did not have a duty he must place above all others.

Letting his hands fall away from her, he stepped back and opened the door. He could feel her gaze bore into his spine as much as he had felt her flesh beneath his fingers only moments before.

“I know ye think ye must go. But ye have reason to stay here, as well,” she said.

He bowed his head, closing his eyes for a moment before he stepped through the door.

“I will return to ye,” he said quietly.

He did not wait for her response before he left.

It was not long before Reinn and Agnarr departed with a group of hired men and a handful of English soldiers. Benjamin followed shortly after, leaving the safety of the common trails and instead making his own path through Indian lands. Agnarr was a man who would not sacrifice his own comfort for a day of dalliance harassing the natives, and Benjamin was counting on them sticking to the much less troublesome main routes.

Smoke escaped from the top of the Northern Hall as he rode into the village, but other than that telltale sign from the smoke hole, there seemed to be very little activity. He could hear the murmur of voices and the squeal of a child, typical sounds of a busy village.

Everything appeared normal – except that he saw or heard no men.

His horse stomped at a fly as he looped the rein over the corral fence. There was little time to waste before the English arrived, and if Benjamin were found aiding the villagers, he could be hanged. He needed to act without haste.

“Why are ye here?”

Benjamin turned to find Kyra staring up at him, hands perched on her hips as if she meant to scold him. If the situation was not so dire he might have laughed, but being she was one of those he meant to protect he stifled his amusement.

“Well, to see ye, of course,” he replied, bending down so that he might look her in the eye. She seemed to appreciate the gesture, flashing a wide smile at him.

“Have ye seen Morgan, sir?” she asked, her cheeks flushing with color. “I mean, he’s not visited of late.”

“Nay, I havna seen him. Tell me, where is yer father?” Benjamin replied. She pushed her hair behind her ear and shrugged, her sunny smile fading into a scowl.

“Hunting. All the men are hunting. They’ll no return ‘til dark.”

It might be good fortune that the men were away, but the cold feeling in his gut surged in spite of it. There was no reason for bloodshed when Agnarr’s men arrived; it should be a simple notification of the Crown’s intent to make use of the land. With no men in the village to argue, the transaction might occur without incident. It was only when the natives resisted that there was trouble.

“Where is yer mother? With the women?” he asked.

“Yes. They’re cooking.” Kyra pointed to the Northern Hall with a shrug. She let out a squeak when he picked her up and tossed her onto his horse. “I canna leave, Momma willna let me!”

“Quiet now, keep yer seat. I’ll fetch yer brother and Ma, and then ye need to ride downstream. Doona kick that beast yet, he’s a flighty sort.”

He was pulling the girth tight when he heard footsteps behind him, and before he could utter a word in defense, he was grabbed by his arm and fingernails bit into his flesh. His reaction was one of self-preservation when he saw the flash of a knife.

With his two large hands he subdued her, closing one hand over her mouth and the other around her waist. She twisted around in his arms, but he easily blocked her blows until she sank her teeth into the flesh of his hand. At that, he turned her to face him, shaking her like a rag with one hand as he plucked the knife from her fingers.

“Just what do you think you’re doing with my daughter?” Maggie demanded. “You won’t be taking her anywhere –”

“Jesus, Maggie! There’s no time for this!” Benjamin hollered.

“Benjamin? What the hell? What are you doing?”

Stunned for a moment, she tried to draw away from him but he held her without fail.

“Where are the boys?” he asked. “Where are the boys, Maggie?”

His frantic voice lowered an octave as he shook her and she stared back at him as if she had lost her sense. For a moment, he thought she had.

“Mal is by the well. What is going on –” she stammered, but he cut her off.

“There’s no time. They’re coming here to the village. Where are all the men? Why are there none here to protect ye women? Tell me!” he snapped. She went rigid as he shook her again, her eyes glazed with confusion.

“They’re with Winn,” she whispered. “The men are all hunting. They’re not here.”

“Jesus. They leave ye unprotected? Alone?” Benjamin cursed.

“They’re not far – and we need the food!” she shot back, obviously incensed with any criticism of Winn. Benjamin stifled the rest of the rant that bubbled to the surface. It was none of his concern how his brother tended his village.

The peril of their situation suddenly burned deep. They were about to be raided by the English, and they needed to come up with a plan.

“The English, ye say?” Gwen interrupted. Benjamin loosened his hold on Maggie, who promptly stepped back. Gwen eyed him up, a scathing glare from head to foot, as if his very presence offended her senses. With a grubby hand clutching her skirt, Malcolm toddled behind her.

“The English are coming to serve ye notice. If ye do as yer bidden they’ll serve ye and leave, but best Maggie and the children stay out of sight. Agnarr travels with them.”

He noted Gwen’s eyes widened, but there was no additional sign of recognition from Maggie, whose face remained pensive. He did not have time nor was he willing to discuss why Agnarr was a danger, so he was relieved to see Gwen understood.

“I thought that wee bastard was dead,” she said.

“Not hardly. He keeps to his own, except when he has cause.” Benjamin looked Gwen in the eye, willing her to understand. “Best we send Winn’s family away for a spell.”

Gwen nodded, her throat visibly tightening. She darted a glance at Maggie, who cocked a brow at the both of them.

“So we’ll take the women and hide. We can go downstream to the Nansemond until Winn and the others return,” Maggie said.

“No, that willna work. If the English come upon this place and find it abandoned, they will burn it to the ground. It would save ‘em the trouble of making a peaceable request,” Benjamin replied.

Gwen cleared her throat.

“Then you must get the children and Maggie away. Take them now, and let us face the English when they arrive.”

“Gwen, no, you can’t stay here! None of you can –”

Gwen reached for Maggie, who quieted when the older woman took her hand. Gwen smiled, a gesture that served to muffle Maggie’s protests for a fraction of a moment.

“Of course I can. It’s my duty as yer kin and yer duty as our Chief’s wife to see yer children safe. Now is the time to lead, my lady. We shall be waiting here fer ye once the English have crawled back to their snake holes.”

When Gwen’s sad eyes met his he swallowed hard. He nodded at the unspoken request in her voice.

“Ye’ll see them safe, will ye not?” Gwen said softly. “Maybe ye are yer father’s son.”

Yes, he thought. He would keep them safe. For that was his duty, and he would not abandon it.

“Mama?” Kyra called out, her voice pitched high in question. Benjamin looked back toward the horse where he had deposited Kyra with strict instructions to stay put. The horse lifted his head straight up, ears pricked and eyes focused on the wood line.

The rustle of movement through the brush and the disjointed shouts of strangers reached them, making the idea of a threat into instant reality. Maggie plucked Malcolm up off the ground.

“Ride, sweetheart,” she whispered, kissing his head as she placed him behind his sister. With shaking hands, she hugged Kyra as Benjamin spoke softly to his niece. Kyra promised to follow the river path downstream to the Nansemond village, where she would wait. In turn, he promised that her mother would not be far behind.

Kyra ground her heels into the horse’s flanks and the beast took off into the woods. He grimaced as Malcolm jerked backwards, but the boy recovered without issue and remained astride behind his sister. Benjamin took Maggie’s hand.

“Go!” Gwen insisted.

Maggie followed him mutely into the woods, gripping his hand with the strength born of panic. He had known her very well once, and he knew fair well when she was afraid. That unguarded part she struggled to contain flared like a beacon with every emotion on display, as if she dared anyone to tell her she should not act on what she felt.

It was clear she did not want to leave the village. He had no doubt she was bold enough to face the English on her own – and he had witnessed her capable behavior on more than one occasion – but there was much more at stake than that. Apparently, she did not recognize the name of her own father, and for the life of him, Benjamin did not know why. Had Winn not told her that her father lived? Nor Erich? Did they think it best she not know of the man? Whatever the reasons, it was clear Maggie was in the dark. The true danger to her and the children was not the English – it was the Norse Time Walker with a vengeful streak who would stop at nothing to claim her if he knew she existed.

“Come on,” Benjamin growled. He could see the English through the trees as they rode into the village and he knew their time to flee had run out. He pulled Maggie into the woods toward a small alcove surrounded by slate boulders, a place he recalled the children often played. Sitting well above the Northern Hall, those in the niche could see the village below, but were unlikely to be seen in return.

“But the children –”

“They’re far gone by now. Ease yer self. We’ll stay down until they leave,” he whispered.

Benjamin tried to control his breathing as he drew her close and they kneeled down in the dirt.

“They willna hurt anyone. He’s here to give them the King’s decree, then he’ll go,” Benjamin said softly, more to convince himself than to placate Maggie. He knew she could see Agnarr down below for the man stood out amongst the English as a gemstone gleamed in the sun. It was not only the expensive clothes he wore and healthy horse he rode, but the way he carried himself lent no argument as to who was in charge.

“Who is he?” she asked.

“An enemy, if ye must know,” he snapped. She twisted around at his harsh reply and shoved him in the chest, which surprised him but did not budge him an inch. It had been years since he had spent time with her, and truth be told, he was no longer that same man. Despite the danger before them, having her in his arms stirred something down deep in his gut. Memories assaulted him, causing a scowl to form on his face.

“Yes, I must know!” she shot back.

“Ye need know he’s dangerous. He’ll recognize ye as a blooded MacMhaolian, and he’ll stop at nothing to take ye,” Benjamin replied. “And yer weans,” he added.

Maggie stopped arguing. More than a dozen men on horseback poured into the courtyard below amidst a cloud of dust, shouting amongst each other as if they feared no retribution. When he saw the band of English soldiers flank the group he realized why. Every man among them held a musket, even the plain dressed Englishmen who were in Agnarr’s employ. Benjamin wondered why they seemed armed for trouble rather than for a simple notification, yet he knew in his bones the answer.

Agnarr did the King’s bidding – when it suited him. Sturlsson always had another motive in his dealings, however, and being vigilant in the search for other Time Walkers was his ever-present task. Holding fast to the notion that not all the Norse colonists had been exterminated by the Indians, Agnarr lived for the moment he might stumble upon one.

And Benjamin, as such, lived to prevent him from doing so.

Agnarr dismounted slower than the others. Shorter than Benjamin but still marked with considerable brawn, the man straightened up in a refined manner and surveyed the others. His bright blond hair was coiffed fashionably back with a ribbon, his velvet and brocade attire more reflective of a gentleman than a rogue.

“What is his name?” Maggie whispered.

Benjamin sighed. He saw no reason to keep it from her.

“Agnarr. My employer,” he answered. Let her chew on that morsel if it would quiet her. With a touch of inappropriate amusement, he noted that Maggie still had no control of her emotion. Always defiant, forever willing to give a challenge instead of acquiescence, he supposed that was one of the things that drew him to her. He adjusted his hand at her waist, aware suddenly that he was gripping her entirely too close as they watched the scene below.

“So you’ve gone back to the English, and this is what you do? Why not join them now? How many villages have you raided? You traitorous bastard –”

“Damn ye, woman, quiet yer tongue. I’ve done no such thing. Did ye ever know me at all?” he snapped.

He could see her pulse throbbing madly along her tight jaw as she glared up at him.

“I thought I did,” she said whispered.

His voice was hoarse when he answered.

“You did know me,” he said. “You knew me like no other ever had.”

Her eyes glistened with the swell of tears and he looked away before she could shed them. His belly was a heavy knot, the warmth of her in his arms sending him back in time to that place where she belonged to him. He shook off the memory as quickly as it surfaced.

The past was over. Now was time to pay for his sins.

Two of the soldiers dragged Gwen from the Northern Hall. Maggie jumped up and Benjamin immediately jerked her back down.

“Doona move!” he ordered.

“They’re hurting Gwen!” Maggie cried. He held her tight, but she refused to turn away from the scene below.

“They willna kill her,” Benjamin whispered.

The tone of his utterance did not console her. She tried to twist away from him once more.

“Let me go, we can talk to them–” she pleaded. Gwen wasted no time displaying her opinion of the intruders, spitting in Agnarr’s face when he approached her.

Benjamin was surprised to see Agnarr turn away from the woman, but his stomach clenched when Agnarr plucked at his glove. Finger by finger he removed it, folding the glove neatly in half before he nodded to his companions. One of Agnarr’s men grabbed Gwen and pulled her out into the middle of the courtyard.

They tied Gwen to a tall post by the well in the yard. Maggie gripped his forearm.

“We have to do something!” she said.

“There is nothing to be done!” he replied, his voice strangled with fear. Agnarr had no cause to harm the villagers. His only duty was to inform them they should move further west, away from the English as they cleared more land for tobacco farming. Benjamin had visited many villages with Agnarr where they had done the same, ending the visit peacefully with no harm to any person. Yet those villages had been filled with Indians, and none of those people held interest to Agnarr. Not like the tiny settlement Winn’s family lived in, a mix of whites, Indians, and random stragglers that kept to themselves.

Benjamin did not expect Maggie to relent, but he was still startled when she renewed her struggle. She struck out at Benjamin and connected with his cheek, her nails scraping his skin. He grabbed her wrists then and crushed her to his chest, holding her head down as Gwen began to scream.

“I promised to keep ye safe. I promised her – and my father. If ye go down there now, I will go after ye, and it will be for naught because they will kill me where I stand.” He felt her jump at the crack of the lash. “I willna let them harm ye. Never,” he whispered fiercely into her hair.

He had made that vow, and he planned to keep it. Maggie let out a muffled shriek against his chest when Gwen screamed again.

They could hear each snap of the strap and the resultant cry from Gwen until finally the lashing ended. They were too far away to hear what the English were saying, so he could not determine what the man said to Gwen as he bent his head to hers. He only knew that there were too many men to count, all armed with gun power, and he was helpless to do anything except stay hidden until it was over.

He felt like a coward, but he knew he had no choice.

“Is that Ellie? What is she doing?” he whispered. When Maggie looked up at him, her face had taken on a pale tint. She followed his gaze back down to the courtyard, where Elli approached the intruders.

“She has Daniel with her,” Maggie whispered.

“Whose wean is that?” he asked.

“Mine. I mean, Rebecca’s. She–she died giving birth. Makedewa left. I’m watching over him until his father returns.”

He bowed head and closed his eyes. Makedewa had been his friend, his companion. To know his friend had lost a wife and now wandered alone was a sickening thought. Benjamin knew what isolation was like, to feel as if your home was no longer a place you could stay. It was a loneliness they had held common, one they had worked to vanquish as they traveled together. He wondered where Makedewa was, and how he fared.

He wished to convey his sadness, but he had no right to behave as if he were still part of the community. Keeping his thoughts to himself, he simply said, “I am sorry.” Maggie gave a slight nod at his words, but her eyes were focused on what was unfolding in the courtyard.

In Ellie’s arms was baby Daniel, bundled securely as she spoke with the English. Elli stood straight as she confronted the intruders, but they were too far away for him to hear what was said. Benjamin’s breathing stilled and he loosened his grip around her.

“What’s happening?” Maggie asked.

“I doona know. I think they’re leaving,” Benjamin replied.

He was right. After speaking with Ellie, the English mounted their horses. Agnarr spoke once more at Gwen and Ellie, and then he turned and slowly surveyed the village.

He raised his chin as if the villagers sullied the very earth he walked on, glancing down his chiseled nose at something on his jacket. With a flick of his gloved hand he brushed at the shimmering brocade, then swiftly mounted the horse one of the other men held for him.

Maggie leaned forward in Benjamin’s embrace. Bored, disgruntled, Agnarr’s countenance bespoke a smoldering anger undisclosed. Once securely astride, Agnarr’s horse turned in a tight circle and the man looked into the woods. Maggie stiffened when Agnarr seemed to stare straight at them, but it was only a momentary glance before he turned and galloped off.

“I will never forget his face,” she whispered as the men rode away. “How does he know me, Benjamin? Tell me.”

“’Tis not my tale to tell. Do not ask it,” he said quietly.

“I deserve an explanation,” she replied.

His throat contracted when he swallowed and his hands tightened on her arms.

“Then ask yer husband and yer uncle. I’m sure they know more about this feud than I do. Tell Winn I will be at the tavern in town if he should care to speak.”

He knew his brother and Erich enough to know that they would not let Gwen’s beating go unpunished. For whatever reason Agnarr had ordered it, the consequence would be more bloodshed. Benjamin feared this was just the beginning.

Ellie untied Gwen and the older woman fell to her knees. Maggie opened her mouth as if to question him again, but closed it and instead.

“Wait here until I see it’s safe. Stay down,” Benjamin replied. More women assembled in the courtyard to help Gwen, but Benjamin would not be satisfied until he was certain the English were gone.

Maggie made to move away, but Benjamin held her for a long spell, feeling as if he were lost somewhere that he could not return from. He stood up and pulled her to her feet with him, forgetting for a moment where he was as he spoke softly to her.

“Do ye see the ridge, over on the far side of the meadow?” he asked. She nodded. “Look there. When I see they’re gone, I’ll wave to ye. Stay here until ye see my hand.”

“I – I want to see Gwen – but the children –” she stammered.

“I’m sure they’re safe. I will see them returned to ye,” he said softly. She nodded.

He released her. Maggie’s cheeks were streaked with tears, but her demeanor was controlled as she gathered her composure. His mouth twisted with the hint of a grin as he thought he would rather fight the English than stand between Maggie and her family – the family he had once meant to call his own.

He stole one last glance at her before he turned away.

God strike me down, he thought if I should still love her. For how can I feel anything else, when I would give my life for hers?

Marcus had given up everything for the sake of his vow. His father had protected the blooded MacMhaolian with his last breath, using his final moments to elicit a pledge from his sons for her safety. In the time Benjamin knew him, Marcus had never spoken of loving a woman, not even Benjamin’s own mother.

Was that the future for one who protected the blooded MacMhaolian? To love her from afar and pledge his life to her protection? It had been easy at that moment, when his father asked it of him.

To realize that he could let her return to Winn without an ounce of regret was another matter entirely. That ache was gone, that tiny part of himself that demanded he keep her was buried, not even an ember of it burning as he walked away. It was a different sort of love, one he could use when needed and look on with fondness. One he could live with without regret or shame.

Relief settled heavy in his chest. His brother would return soon, and Winn’s family was safe for now. He heard the whisper of her voice as he left her, carried to him over the gentle roar of his heart.

“Thank you,” she said.

He nodded and kept walking.

Winn

The men returned from hunting not long after the sun dipped behind the mountains, but the moment they reached the village Winn knew something was amiss. Be it the stillness in the air or the lack of welcoming cries from their women, it was a silence that sent his heart to racing.

His motions were blunted in a blurred haze as he left his horse ground tied and gave his son an order to stay in the courtyard. Chetan and Erich called out to him, but he could not decipher the words if he had wanted to. All he could manage to focus on was the path to his longhouse, and until he held the sight of his family safe before his eyes, he would not rest.

It was Chetan who reached him as Winn opened the door to his empty dwelling. If not for his brother’s hand on his arm, he might have exploded at the sight of the cold hearth. Where were his wife and children?

“They are with Gwen,” Chetan said, the question clear on Winn’s face. “Men were here.”

“Powhatan?” Perhaps Winn had brought retaliation down on his people by refusing to help Opechacanough.

“English.”

Torn by his anger and overwhelmed with relief, he followed his brother to Gwen and Erich’s longhouse. There he found Maggie sitting beside Gwen, silently watching her aunt sleep. Kyra and Malcolm curled up beside each other in a pile of furs next to the fire, and Makedewa’s son slept peacefully in a cradle beside the fire. All those Winn loved were safe, the guilt of relief washing over him as he looked down upon them.

“Will she wake?” Erich asked, placing his hand on Gwen’s shoulder. Her body tensed but she did not stir, and Maggie shook her head.

“I gave her a drink for the pain. The poppy made her sleep,” Maggie said softly.

Winn heard his wife gasp when Erich parted Gwen’s dressing. Erich looked down on Gwen’s flayed skin, his body unnaturally rigid as everyone fell silent. When Erich gently replaced the bandages and turned away from the bed, Winn thought his wife’s uncle was in control. Yet striking quick as a serpent, Erich whirled away from the bed and buried his fist into a thick wooden beam, leaving his hand bloodied and ragged as he turned to the fire. The older man was surprisingly quick in his temper, uttering a hoarse oath as blood dripped from his torn skin. He ignored the wound and placed both hands on the mantle, leaning over the fire as he struggled to speak. His ragged voice emerged, low but steady as he stared into the flames.

“I willna let this go. Give me two men, Winn, that is all I ask of ye,” Erich growled.

Winn paused before he answered, knowing his words would only serve to incite Erich further. Winn feared Erich’s willingness to retaliate against the English could not be stayed, but he had to try somehow to make his friend hear sense.

“Stay with your wife until dawn,” Winn answered, placing his hand on Erich’s shoulder. Erich grimaced, his fists clenched tight upon the mantle. “Then I will go with you.”

Erich remained still for a moment, and then his shoulders and head dipped down. He nodded, his gaze still focused on the fire, and Winn knew the man was at his breaking point. Winn could not fault Erich for the desire for vengeance; it was a desire that Winn was most familiar with. Yet it was the strength of a Chief that Erich needed then, and giving in to primitive desire without a plan would serve no one.

Winn turned to the bed and gathered up his sleeping children. Kyra stirred in her sleep with a tiny sob, her cheeks stained with the remnants of dusty tears as she burrowed into his chest. Malcolm, thankfully, stayed asleep, merely tucking his face into his father’s neck. Maggie followed mutely behind him with the babe in her arms. Winn called to Dagr to join them, and soon his children were all accounted for.

His two sons slept in the back of the longhouse, and Maggie tucked Kyra into her bed in the loft above. Though the infant was not his son, he was still of Winn’s blood, and he counted as one of those Winn meant to keep safe. Five beating hearts entrusted to his care, five people he would give his own life to see protected.

Yet it was greater than that, a greater duty than even the ties of love he felt for his family. He had promised to lead the villagers, the blending of Norsemen and Indians that looked to him for guidance. Winn had taken his father’s place, pledged to honor his ancestors by seeing their bloodlines go on.

It was with a coldness stealing over his skin that he knew they could not go back. If being Chief meant he would hide his people and allow the English to abuse them without retaliation, then Winn was no Chief.

He would find them, and make them suffer. The man who harmed Gwen would die, and all those who aided him would bleed. It did not matter that it was the way of the Paspahegh, or the way of the Norse. In the end, it would be a husband’s vengeance, and Winn would stand beside Erich when he struck that final blow.

As he lay next to his wife he stared into the darkness, letting the echoes of old battles with the English clutter his thoughts. Although Maggie curled up against him with her hand resting lightly on his chest, the images haunted him. The screams of men, the feel of bloodied flesh beneath his hands, it stayed with him even when he meant to forget.

Perhaps the taking of life would always plague him. After all, could any man truly hold the soul of another in his grasp? To send another to the afterlife left some trace. It was a stain that could never be washed away.

“What will you do?” Maggie whispered. He knew she did not sleep, and he was not surprised at her question. It was the same question he asked himself.

“What I must,” he replied quietly.

Her fingers tightened into a fist on his skin. When he placed his hand over hers, she relaxed her hand flat against his chest.

“Winn?” she asked, a tentative question in her voice.

“Hmm?”

“Teach me to how to use the musket. It was sitting here, I could have used it –”

“No,” he replied. He repeated his command, so there would be no question that she would obey. “No. You did your duty today, and that is all you must do.”

“I ran away like a coward, and Gwen suffered for it,” she said, her voice unsteady.

“Would it console you if you killed one Englishman? The musket cannot kill them all. Gwen would still be beaten. And you would be dead as well.”

From where her cheek rested against his skin, a trickle of tears dampened his skin. She did not raise her head, hiding the frustration he knew simmered in her heart.

“You will not worry on the matters of men,” he said. “Give me your word, ntehem.”

She did not answer him for a long time. Finally, her head moved where she lay against his chest. It was a slight nod, but it was enough. He had her promise, and that was all that mattered to him in that moment.

It was not long before her breathing slowed, and he listened to her rhythmic slumber long into the night. His sons uttered muffled snores, and he could hear the rustle of the bedding as his daughter shifted in her sleep.

Although his family was safe, the truth of it was enough to strike fear into his bones. Tomorrow they would set out on a new path, and the life they led would exist no more.

“I will do what I must,” he said, his voice only a whisper in the darkness.

Those he loved slept on.

Winn joined Erich before the light of dawn graced the sky. He was relieved to find his wife’s uncle at Gwen’s bedside, and although it appeared Erich had not slept, at least he had not left the village on a one-man vengeance spree. It was all Winn could ask for.

“She woke fer a time. She said his hair was black and his speech was queer, like he’d a mouth full of honey. The others called him Hayes,” Erich said quietly before Winn even announced himself.

“An Englishman?” Winn asked. Erich nodded. The older man rubbed a thick hand across his eyes, rubbing away the remnants of sleep not taken. He bowed his head to his wife, his thatch of reddish gold hair nearly touching hers as she slept.

“I dinna understand most of what she said before the poppy silenced her, but aye, it was an Englishman who did it.”

Winn took a cup from the hearth and poured some warm ale, handing it to Erich, then took a cup for himself. Erich shrugged with a long sigh yet downed it in a single swallow as he eyed Winn over the rim.

“Go ahead. I see yer mind twistin’. Say yer piece. I’ll hear it now,” Erich muttered.

“You will hear it, yet will you listen?” Winn replied, more to himself than to Erich. His uncle-by-marriage stood up away from the bed.

“If ye mean to tell me we willna avenge this deed –”

“We will find the one who did this,” Winn cut him off. “And the ones who helped him. My horse stands ready; I wait only for your word.”

“No.”

Gwen’s cracked voice emerged from the bed. The men turned to see her sitting upright against a bundle of furs, her eyes glazed from the strong herbs but her face set with a stubborn edge. Her hair stuck to the wounds on her back, thick pieces entwined in the poultice and blood. Winn noted her grimace as she took a deep breath.

“Ye canna go after them. Agnarr didn’t know me, but if ye go thrashing his men, he’ll surely think to come back here. What then, ye brazen louts?” she berated them.

Erich’s face turned a peculiar shade of crimson as Gwen railed at them. She continued citing numerous reasons why they were idiots peppered with a slew of colorful insults until Erich exploded.

“Ye’ll not tell me how to take care of ye, ye bletherin’ harpy!” he shouted. “If I wish to dispatch an Englishman it’s my right as yer husband, and ye’ll stay here and wait fer me!”

“Oh, will I? Aye, I’ll stay ‘ere! And I’ll shove a stick up yer –”

“Enough!” Winn hollered, slamming his empty cup down on the table. “Agnarr was here? And he did not know you?”

Gwen scowled. “No. I feared he might remember me, but he dinna seem to. Even when I spit in the lout’s face.”

“Ah, bruor, why did ye do it?” Erich said quietly. His voice shook with the uttered endearment, and clearly, the ferocious spat was over. The older man sat down next to his wife on the bedding platform and took her hands in his. “Ye risk too much.”

“I know. I regret my temper, but the things he said!” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve held my tongue. The risk to our niece and the weans –”

“He might have killed ye,” Erich interrupted. “And then where would I be, my love, without ye to rile me?”

Gwen placed her hand on Erich’s cheek, tears welling up in her round eyes. Winn stepped outside, closing the plank door quietly behind him.

Seeing the way Erich looked at his wife made Winn’s duty seem all the more just. Vengeance still called, but it would wait for a touch of affection to bless them. Erich and Gwen needed a moment, and Winn needed to decide what to do about Agnarr Sturlsson.

With a touch of restlessness, Winn dismounted from his horse. Elizabethtown was much busier than he recalled from his last visit, a veritable mess of commerce and excess crowding the marketplace. Chetan stayed behind to oversee the village, and although Winn had ordered it, he was uneasy with his brother’s absence from his side. Cormaic was more than capable of meeting any threat to their party and the Norseman seemed to enjoy giving orders to young Iain and Tyr. Chetan’s son, Keke, however, stayed close to Winn’s side, soundless as he listened to the prattle of English clamor around them.

Paspahegh to the bones, Keke remained silent as the others made noise, and he studied the townsfolk as his companions gathered their wits. Onamen.

Watch. See your enemy before you strike. Every warrior knew that simple truth.

The young men were excited to ride into town despite the risk and Winn could not fault them for their enthusiasm, but his reason for bringing them was more of a selfish one. Erich was not himself, and Winn hoped the presence of the impressionable youths would keep the older man in check.

Winn knotted the end of his rawhide rein around a post, adjacent to the rest of his men’s mounts outside the tavern. Since they had arrived in town he felt increasingly unsettled, knowing the risk they were taking by searching for the men who came to the village.

“I trust thy desire is to settle this matter peaceably.”

Winn looked over at John Basse, a stout young Englishman with a round face. His cheeks were sunburned in spite of his wide-brimmed hat, a trickle of sweat running down his neck. A devout Christian landowner and one who was adamant about his desire to spread his views to the Indians, Basse was a man Winn held some trust for that he believed would be useful. Satisfying Erich’s vengeance would serve no one if they all ended up dead, so Winn decided the best way to deflect attention from their activity would be to engage the Christians. When Winn asked for his assistance, the Englishman was more than happy to comply.

“That is my desire,” Winn agreed. He heard Erich make a gruff snorting sound behind him.

“Verily, thy friends should feel the same?” John asked, casting a nervous glance at Keke, who was wiping his knife on his tan leggings.

“They do,” Winn replied. His answer seemed to satisfy John.

One might think he would be accustomed to the stench of the English by now, but the rancid odor of too many people in a small space hung heavy in the air, broken by the occasional waft of roasted meat from inside the tavern. He did not wish to follow the scent, but it came from where he meant to go and there was no other way. Winn motioned to John Basse to follow, and nodded to Erich and Cormaic to remain outside.

They had discussed the plan on the ride into town, which involved Winn taking John Basse to speak with Benjamin and Erich and the others standing watch. John Basse was a convenient diplomat in a time of need, but he was no soldier, and as such, the man was little assistance in locating the Englishmen they searched for.

Benjamin was a different matter entirely. Winn was certain his brother would know exactly what men they were looking for and where to find them. The only question remaining was if Benjamin would help them or not.

“Is that thy friend, perchance?” John asked as they moved through the tavern. Benjamin stood behind the bar, but his eyes narrowed on Winn as soon as he entered the room.

“It is,” Winn agreed.

Benjamin met them where they stood. From the way his eyes shifted about the room, Winn could see his brother was uneasy, which only served to cause Winn more caution.

Could he be trusted? Years before, Benjamin had abandoned his family and declared his allegiance to the English after the death of their father. Winn knew the reasons Benjamin left, but to see his brother in league with their enemies left one little choice but to question his loyalty. Although Benjamin claimed staying away was the best way he could protect his kin, for all outward appearances Benjamin was just as much a threat as his employer.

Benjamin made a motion towards a table in the corner and they sat down. John Basse stammered a declaration about watching for trouble and left them to stand by the door. Slightly away from the bustle, the shadowed corner gave Winn and Benjamin some privacy. Winn sat upright against the back of the chair, considering his brother’s nervous demeanor with suspicion.

“I give you my thanks for your aid to my family,” Winn said evenly, “yet I must ask where to find the men who raided my village.”

Benjamin ran a hand through his hair, then opened his mouth to speak and reconsidered. With a groan he slammed his fist down on the table and glared back at Winn.

“I dinna do it fer ye! And – and ye need to tell me what ye know! Why does yer wife know nothing of Agnarr?”

Winn leaned forward, gripping the edge of the plank table with his hands.

“She need not know of him,” Winn replied.

“Why? D’ye truly think yer safe here? Why not take them away? Why stay here when ye run the risk of being found?”

“So you think I must run from one man? Leave the place I was born, the place my children were born? I think not,” Winn shot back, feeling the heat rise to his throat as he bit back his anger.

“D’ye know what they did to the Blooded Ones, in the land our father came from?” Benjamin asked. “How the women were fought over by the Chiefs – at least the ones that might bear children? The barren ones had only one use, and that was –”

“I know the tales,” Winn growled. Yes, he knew what had been done to those like Maggie in the past. History was the very reason why the Blooded McMillan needed protection, why the Neilsson Chiefs had sworn an oath to protect them.

“Then why must ye stay? Ye’ve always been a stubborn lout, but I canna see why –” Benjamin’s mouth fell open as he sat back in his chair. “Oh, aye, I see. It’s like that? Yer wife really knows nothing, ‘tis plain. Who are ye serving by keeping her senseless? Maybe yer Indian uncle?”

Winn rose slowly to his feet. His pulse throbbed in his ears, his muscles taut with desire to throttle his brother. Who was Benjamin to question his actions? Benjamin, who had abandoned them to seek refuge with their foe?

“When you return to your kin, brother, you may question my command. Until that time, you have no voice,” Winn said quietly. Old wounds surged in the space between them, betrayal and anger spiking his words. “Tell me where to find the men I seek, and I will leave you to your duties serving my enemy.”

Benjamin remained seated, meeting Winn’s gaze without waver.

“Ye shall find them at the docks. Sturlsson is expecting a shipment forthright.”

Winn loosened his fists and turned to go. John Basse stared inquisitively at him from the doorway.

“He is the enemy to me, as well, brother,” Benjamin said, standing up and grabbing Winn’s arm as he moved away. “I pledged an oath to protect the Blooded Ones, and that is what I do. I know ye do the same.”

Through the rank anger that flared, Winn realized the trace of truth in Benjamin’s words. It hit him like a hammer, the thought of his actions squeezing him tight.

Did he stay in Tsenacommacah for his family, or did he stay to satisfy his own base desire to remain in his birth land? As a Paspahegh-born man, he knew he was tied to the land just as surely as his soul was a gift from the Great Creator. Yet he had made a promise to protect the Blooded Ones at all cost – even if that meant his own desires must stay buried.

“Uncle!”

John Basse stepped back a pace as Keke entered the tavern, giving the lean young brave a wide berth. Keke’s dark eyes were wide as he called out to Winn.

“They went to the docks,” Keke said.

Winn shrugged his arm away from Benjamin.

Damn his blasted uncle-by-marriage, and damn his traitor brother. As Winn left for the docks, the others followed.

If they did not all end up dead by sundown, it would be only by the grace of the Gods.

A seagull screamed as it dived down from flight, settling on the palisades as Winn and John approached the docks. Tyr and Iain stood beneath the low hanging roof of a mud and stud house near the supply post, close to the port where a newly docked ship was being unloaded. Standing a good measure taller than most young men his age, Tyr’s flash of auburn hair blazed like a beacon, making it easy to pick him out of the crowd. Winn knew Erich and Cormaic must be nearby if they had left the youths on their own. Iain nudged Tyr with an elbow as Winn approached.

“Where is he?” Winn asked. He kept his tone even, despite his annoyance.

“Inside,” Tyr replied. “The smithy knew a man called Hayes. Said he had half a tongue and spoke queer. Erich thought he might have a word with him since the man was ‘ere in thee tobacco inspector’s warehouse.”

“Seems most reasonable,” John said. The Englishman removed his hat, wiping his face with a bit of white cloth he pulled from his pocket.

“It is not,” Winn muttered. He had no doubt what he would find inside, and it would be a scene that was far from reasonable to the Englishman. “John, keep watch. Knock twice should any soldiers come near.”

To Keke, Winn gave a curt order in Paspahegh so that John Basse did not understand. Watch for trouble, Winn said. Keke nodded.

John eagerly nodded, and Winn could not help but think the man seemed relieved. If their meeting inside went badly, it would be unlikely John Basse would be willing to help them again. Winn had spent months cultivating a friendship with John, knowing the alliance with him would only benefit those in his village.

They needed to maintain ties with the Christian landowner, despite what Erich planned to do to the man inside. Better John Basse remain outside, taking no part in their business.

Iain and Tyr followed Winn inside. To Winn’s surprise, there were a handful of Englishmen standing in line behind a long plank table. One man sat before them, his dark head bent low over a ledger book. The man took receipts from those who waited in line, giving an occasional snort or grunt of acknowledgement as he scribbled furiously on the parchment.

Cormaic and Erich stood at the rear of the line. While Cormaic noticed Winn’s arrival, Erich did not. The older Norseman was too intent on watching the man seated behind the table.

“Him?” Winn asked as he joined them in line. There was no sense in berating Erich. Winn’s only hope was to keep them all alive while Erich satisfied the debt owed to him.

“Perhaps,” Erich muttered, his stare unwavering. Cormaic leaned over, speaking quietly to Winn.

“It must be him, but the bugger willna speak. Da needs to hear if his speech is queer before we do it.”

“Do what?” Winn asked, not really wanting to know the answer. He counted four Englishmen in line and one behind the table. The odds were fair, yet it was still a risk he did not wish to take, especially when they were closed in by the confines of the small dwelling.

“Why, have a wee talk with him, of course,” Cormaic said, uttering an undignified grunt.

The current customer at the table raised his voice, slapping an invoice down in front of the clerk. Red-faced and angry, the man threw up his arms in disgust.

“Ye know there are no worms in my hogsheads, ye bloody cuss!” he hollered. “I post my best share – ye have no need to cheat me!”

The dark-haired clerk stood up. Apparently, a simple snort was no longer an adequate response. As the man opened his mouth to speak, Winn felt Cormaic and Erich lean forward.

“Sturlss’n ha no need of yer stank tobacca’, now git ye gone – and ‘ust who da bloody hell are ye?”

The clerk spoke only the once sentence with a slurred voice before Erich went for him, grabbing the man by the collar and slamming him down on the table face first. The previous customer jumped obligingly out of the way, but several other Englishmen made as if they might be a nuisance.

Cormaic brandished his knife, a particularly long serrated one, pointing it at the other men. One by one he addressed them, looking like a hulking bear about to eat his dinner.

“Ye’ll abide for a moment, boys,” Cormaic advised them. “We have a bit of business and we’ll be on our way.” Iain and Tyr flanked Cormaic, standing tall and confident in the older Norseman’s shadow.

Winn circled the men and joined Erich, who was grinding the man’s face into the wood. The clerk screamed his indignation, slobbering a slew of threats, which only came out as an unintelligible mess as he protested his treatment.

“I’ll have yer name!” Erich growled. When the clerk did not answer, Erich picked his head up and slammed it back down, bringing a froth of blood from the man’s lips that splattered the ledger book.

“Tell him yer name,” Winn said, lowering his face close to the man to look him in the eye. If he was the man who beat Gwen, there was no hope to save him. The Norseman had lived peacefully the village for many years, but there was still the beast of a berserker in Erich that flared darkly in his eyes.

“Hayes, it is! William Hayes!” the clerk cried out. The name came out sounding like yillium aze, but it was clear to Erich, nonetheless.

The long table crashed to the floor, overturned by Erich as the clerk tried to scramble away. Although Hayes hit the floor on his knees and then scurried toward the open door, Erich took his time. Calm now, his face bereft of any hint of emotion, Erich unsheathed his knife and followed the crawling man as a lion might stalk his prey.

Erich threaded his fingers into the man’s hair and pulled his neck sharply back, placing his newly sharpened blade under his chin.

“Coward,” he whispered, his voice as steady as his knife. “Ye lifted yer hand to the wrong woman. A mistake ye shall not make again.”

Winn did not look away. It was his duty to bear witness, to tell Gwen she had been avenged, and he must look upon it as if it was done with his own hand. Blood surged as Erich sliced the man’s throat, a stream pulsing out onto the wide plank floor. Behind them, one of the Englishmen retched.

“Far vel,” Erich muttered, the farewell uttered in his thick Norse tongue. Erich let go and the man slumped to the floor, gurgling and clutching his throat as his skull hit the wood with a sickening crack. They watched him kick in his death throes until he choked and ceased to stir, and only then did Winn glance at the Englishmen who were left. They huddled together by a window, as far away from the dead clerk as they could manage to get in such a small space.

When the one with fresh vomit on his jacket made a move toward the door, Winn met the man’s gaze and shook his head.

“Stay and you will live,” Winn said. The flighty Englishman stepped quickly back with the others, cowering when Cormaic approached.

“Aye, ye shall live – fer now. Many thanks fer keeping quiet, friends. I should not wish ye to meet his fate,” Cormaic commented, tipping his head toward the dead clerk. The remaining Englishmen eagerly nodded, wordless in agreement with the beast of a Norseman. There was a collective sigh from the bunch when Winn and the men left.

John Basse had retreated a distance away, choosing to wait near the square. Keke explained John heard the scuffle and was none too eager to walk away when Keke made the suggestion. Winn thanked the young brave. It was better for them all if John Basse did not truly know what had occurred inside.

“Oh, good! Ye all seem hale and hearty. I take it ye honored my counsel and resolved yer business peaceably?” John asked. Cormaic thumped John on the shoulder as he passed by, eliciting a startled whoop from the Christian as the breath was forced from his chest.

Winn looked ahead at Erich, who was making his way in a decisive manner toward the tavern with the rest of their party. John grimaced as he rubbed his arm, following Winn as they left.

“Resolved?” Winn replied. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

Maggie

the bucket splashed her skirts as she walked despite her attempt to keep it from smacking against her knee. Maggie knew she was not the most skilled worker in the village, yet she carried on with her tasks regardless of the snickers and teasing from the other women.

Across the courtyard, Ellie sat beneath a thatched overhang with those who knew how to weave. As Maggie passed by, Ellie smiled and quickly ducked her head back to her weaving. It was just one more task that everyone knew Maggie was completely inept at, and as such she was never invited to sit with the group. Gwen claimed it was out of respect, that the other women would not presume to ask the Chief’s wife to do such things. Maggie knew it was just Gwen’s way of softening the blow.

Truth was, there was nothing Maggie could do that would earn her their respect. She was painfully aware her only value surged in her blood, and most times, she did not understand why even that fact should make a difference. Yes, she was wife to Winn and mother to his children. Yet the twenty-first century woman inside her struggled with accepting her place.

As she set the bucket down inside the door of her longhouse, the men returned to the village. The playful banter coming from the weaving house immediately ceased and the women paused in their duties. It was not the usual greeting given to the men, but it was no simple day of hunting they had returned from, as every person left in the village was keenly aware.

Winn handed his horse off to one of the young boys. She noticed he did not speak to her uncle, or acknowledge the other men as he left them. Even across the span of the courtyard, she could see the distress etched into his face. Whatever had happened, she was sure he would tell her, but she counted each of the men even so. Yes, they had all returned.

He brushed her arm with his fingertips as he passed by, entering their longhouse without a word. She closed the door and followed him inside, unease washing through her.

“Winn?” she said softly. He discarded his weapons into a pile by the fire, taking care to settle his father’s knife on the mantle. When he reached to shed his tunic she placed her hands over his, helping him untie the strings and pull it over his head. It was a gesture that often made him smile; his lack of response only served to frighten her further.

“What happened?” she asked.

He raised his eyes to hers.

“Gwen is avenged,” he replied. Maggie sighed as he looked away, focusing his gaze on the fire instead of her.

“And you’re home safe. All of you,” she said. He nodded.

“For now. For now, we are all safe,” he murmured. “Sit, wife. I would have your ear for a moment.”

She wanted to declare he could have any part of her he wished, but she could see it was not the time for such words. It tore at her to see him so pained, as if what he meant to tell her was something so terrible he could not bear to speak it.

“Your father is a man named Sturlsson,” he said. She nodded, not surprised. She knew he was a Sturlsson, but she did not know his first name. It did not matter to her, nor should it matter to Winn, and it was not worth causing her aunt or uncle stress by asking upon it.

“So why should I know this?” she said.

“He is the tobacco inspector for Elizabeth City. Agnarr Sturlsson is a powerful man, one who does the Governor’s bidding. He –”

“Wait…what did you say? Agnarr?” she interrupted. The events of the day prior rushed back. Sending the children off, hiding in the woods with Benjamin. Watching helplessly as Gwen was beaten.

Watching the way that man’s face looked when he stared into the woods where she hid, disgust and triumph seared into his sculpted features as if torturing women was just another day’s work.

“Yes.”

“You knew he was alive,” she whispered. She sat down, as the floor seemed to drop from beneath her feet.

“I did.”

“Why tell me now? Why am I suddenly worthy of the truth?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. She did not wish to rail at him, yet the sting of betrayal was too harsh.

“Because we must take a new path if we wish to see our children grow old,” he said, his voice low. “I cannot protect us here. If Sturlsson discovers you, he will bring the force of the English down upon this place.”

Winn turned his back to her, placing his hands upon the mantle. Across his thick back, his muscles surged tight, tense as he lowered his head. “What they did to the Blooded Ones…in the time of my father’s father…I will never let that happen to you. To you – or our children.”

“Tell me all of it,” she said. The sting of her jagged nails bit into her palms as she clutched her hands in her lap, trying her best to beat down the betrayal in her heart.

“Those of your kind,” he said quietly, “the women…they were fought over. Those of your blood have all the power – power to bend time, control the Bloodstone, to heal the dead…and to bear children who can do the same. As long as you can bear children, men like Sturlsson will hunt you.”

“And when I can no longer have children? What use am I then to someone like my father?” she whispered.

“You can bring life to the dead.”

“I cannot heal the dead. Only the newborns have that gift,” she said.

“It is not only the newborns who hold that power.”

She swallowed hard.

He turned to her, his pained blue eyes meeting hers.

“You can heal the dead,” he replied. “By giving your life.”

She knew the way it worked, but until that moment she had not considered the horror of what it meant. A few drops of blood from her infant son’s heel had saved Makedewa once; her own blood smeared on a Bloodstone had brought her to the past. Yet the magic was nearly a myth to her, spoken of only in whispers and guarded by the men she loved. The reality of what it truly meant to those who came before her was so much more.

“Sturlsson needs a Blooded One to travel through time, he is not powerful enough alone. He would use you to return to his time, and then he would take your life to save his father.”

“Our children…”

“All of our children are Blooded,” Winn said quietly. “Do you know how powerful a child would be, born from a Blooded man and woman?”

She shook her head, refusing to acknowledge the horror of what he implied as he kneeled down beside her. He gathered her fingers between his warm hands, lowering his head into her lap.

“It is your right to know this,” he said. “Yet, still, I would not tell it to you if there was no need.”

“Why keep it from me? I – I trust you with my life. Have you no trust in me?” she asked.

He pulled her into his arms, his lips pressed into her hair.

“I trust you with all I have, ntehem. The burden of fear is a heavy one,” he said. “It is only that I wished to carry it for you.”

Later she checked on the babe in his cradle at her bedside, and Winn reluctantly left her. Although she wished him to stay, she understood he had taken time away from his duties and she knew he needed to return to the men. He left her with a few tender kisses and a pledge to return soon, and she settled down to rest on their pallet.

Alone in her thoughts, it was then that she cried. She was not certain what drove the emotion, whether it was the worry over the danger her father presented or the numbing hum of grief that still plagued her over losing Rebecca, but it consumed her. Even when she clenched her eyes tightly shut, it haunted her. Her family would always be in jeopardy, forever hunted. Despite the magic in her blood, she was powerless in the face of the danger before them.

The door creaked, stirring her from her shallow sleep, and she smiled knowing her husband had returned. He knew her weakness, he called it her strength. She needed his arms around her to feel that certainty once more.

Expecting a gentle greeting, she was stunned when a hand gripped her wrist and jerked her painfully up off the pallet.

“What the –” she yelped as Makedewa dragged her to her feet. She stumbled over the loose bedding and struggled to right herself, trying to wrench her hand away from him without success.

“Quiet!” he hissed. Torn between relief at seeing him and confusion at his behavior, she could not hide her rising annoyance. Even knowing what a hothead he was, his behavior was strange even for him, and she tried to stem the suspicion rising in her gut. His face was shielded in the darkness of the longhouse so she could not see if he smiled or sneered, but from the way he twisted her wrist she suspected the latter. Even in the darkness, she could feel the menace in his touch and smell the reek of danger emanating from him.

“What are you doing? You’ll wake your son!” she whispered. He stilled at her words, and she stopped struggling against him when he moved closer to the cradle. She could see the outline of his face there as a sliver of moonlight shone down on him through the smoke-hole.

She saw no gentle loving gaze in his countenance, rather what laid there she was at loss to put words to. It was a stranger she stood next to, staring down at the infant as if he would smother the child in his sleep rather than claim him as his son.

“Come with me. Make no sound,” he demanded. When she opened her mouth, he shook her hard and then she felt the pierce of a blade against her side. She glanced down at the newborn in the cradle and then at her three sleeping children. None of them stirred, and for that she was grateful. Seeing their beloved uncle behave like a mad man would only frighten them.

He took her from the safety of the longhouse and she did not fight him. Whatever he had in mind, she knew he was as troubled as she was, and to see him so rankled and fearsome caused the sickness in her belly to surge stronger. When he pulled her down the path through the woods, she saw he was leading her toward the hill where Rebecca was buried. Perhaps he only wanted privacy, and the roguish way he was treating her was his way of asking. Makedewa had never been one to share his feelings without strong persuasion.

“Uncle?”

He jerked her around at the sound of Dagr’s voice. Dagr stood watching them at the end of the wood line, his eyes wide with confusion.

“Go back to sleep, Dagr. We’re just talking,” she said, her voice steady. Makedewa’s hand tightened on her upper arm.

“But Ma–”

“I said go!” she insisted.

Dagr rubbed his sleepy eyes with one curled fist and nodded.

“Aye, Mama. It’s good to see yer home, Uncle,” he said with a yawn. She let out her breath in a grateful rush as Dagr turned and went back toward the longhouse. Makedewa grunted something coarse and resumed pulling her along without haste.

She stumbled as they neared the grave and he released her wrist. Rubbing her bruised hand, she watched him walk a few paces away, then turn back to her. His eyes, always dark, were like burnt embers in an empty shell. Although things were far from pleasant in their relationship, she cared for him as a brother and it twisted her heart to see him in such pain.

“I’m glad you’re back. We were all worried about you,” she said. At her words he gave her his back, and she heard him utter a snort as she approached.

“Speak no lies to me, Red Woman. You worry for no one, save yourself.”

Despite her desire to comfort him, his accusation hurt her and she lashed out in return.

“Oh, do I? Is that why I have been caring for your son? Is that why I feed him from my own breast, as if he were my own? You’re not the only one who lost her! We all miss Rebecca–”

He was on her in the next moment, his fingers wrapped tightly around her throat. Her vision blurred as he squeezed.

“You know nothing of what I feel. I will not hear her name from your lips,” he growled. His grip loosened and she sputtered into a coughing fit as the air surged back into her lungs.

“I loved her, too,” she whispered. She dared to speak the words, knowing it would inflame him even more, but unable to keep the truth from tumbling past her lips. His face shattered then, his eyes glossy with unshed tears as his mouth fell slightly open.

“Then bring her back to me,” he said softly.

The moonlight gleamed across his shoulders, his muscles straining as he glared down at her. A bird screamed from a nearby nest. Was it a raven? She did not know.

“I cannot,” she whispered. She would not lie to him by saying she would if she could. She had given Winn her promise, and she could not break it. She could not tamper with the laws of the living by changing the past.

“You mean you will not.”

She gave him no answer, but he knew it without the words. She flinched as he drew his knife.

“Let go of me!” she cried. He dragged her closer to the edge of the peak, so close she could see the white-capped waves crashing against the rocks below, glowing like silver peaks along the beach.

“If I spill your blood, will it bring her back? Tell me how the magic works. Tell me!” he shouted. The knife dug into her side and she felt the sting of the blade pressed through the layers of her dress. It pierced her skin and a trickle of warmth surged forth, only a flesh wound, but enough to make itself known.

“I don’t know–”

“You lie! If I kill you here, will it bring her back? This magic brought you here, surely it can return her to me!”

His fingers slid, slippery with her fresh blood, and suddenly he pulled her into his arms. She clutched him, shaking with fear and despair, even as he continued to hold the knife to her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

His throat tightened and he bent his head downward.

“I tried. I tried to go on, as she would want me to do,” he said softly. “She was not meant to leave this life before me.”

Maggie stroked his head as she would have comforted a child, listening without question as he let his agony spill forth. His fingers twisted among her dress, clenching and unclenching as he shook. She felt the dampness on his cheeks and the shudder of his body as he held onto her, his grip that of a desperate man clinging to the last shred of reality.

“If it were you that died, would my brother feel this way? Would he wish to leave this earth and follow you?” he asked. She stiffened at the thought. It was not something she wished to have answered, nor ever think on. Could she fault Makedewa for his rash acts in the shadow of his grief, and would she or Winn be any better if they lost each other?

She shook her head, as both an answer to him and a denial.

“We should go talk to Winn. Your brother –”

“I am not my brother,” he replied. “And my wife…my wife was everything good and pure. She was what kept me tied here. Now there is nothing of worth left inside me.”

For a moment, she felt him waver, his embrace softening as if he meant to share his grief. Yet as fast as it happened, it disappeared moments later, and from behind them, she heard the sound of angry voices coming toward them.

It was Winn, and she could hear Chetan’s shouts as well. Makedewa held her firm, so she could not turn her head to see them, and she felt him turn the blade away from her.

“Makedewa…let me go. Come back to the village with us. Come see your son,” she whispered. Her cheek smeared with tears as he clutched her to his chest with one arm, his lips close to her ear. His fingers were tangled in her hair, his voice hoarse.

“No. It is too late,” he said softly. His hand tightened on her back. “I have drawn your blood. There is no return from that. There are things even a brother cannot forgive.”

When he released her, she did not move away immediately. She knew what would happen between them, her instinct strong to stand between the two men and the actions they would regret. Yet Makedewa would have none of her peacemaking, and with a steady hand he shoved her toward Winn.

She saw Winn’s eyes flicker from her face to her side, where her dress held the spreading bloodstain from the shallow knife wound. A rush of cold panic surged through her as her husband’s gaze turned to his brother.

“Come here, wife,” Winn said slowly. She darted a glance back at Makedewa before she complied. The younger warrior stood straight before them, his chest rising and falling in a tortured cadence as he returned his brother’s stare.

She went to Winn, who did not acknowledge her as she passed, but merely continued to level his gaze at Makedewa.

“Tell me my wife’s wound did not come from your hand. Tell me, brother, so that we may welcome your return,” Winn said.

Maggie opened her mouth to speak, but closed it when Chetan placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I cannot tell you that in truth,” Makedewa replied.

Winn took a step toward him. The scream of metal pierced the thick night air as Winn drew his sword.

“Then tell me it was some other evil, that another guided your blade. Ask for my mercy and I shall give it.”

Makedewa slid the bryntroll from the harness on his back. The long-handled axe had been a marriage gift from Winn at a time that suddenly seemed so long ago. As the warrior lifted the weapon and pointed it at Winn, Maggie shifted her stance, but Chetan held her tightly when the two brothers began to circle each other.

“Stop them,” she whispered. Chetan shook his head.

“They must settle this. There is no other way,” Chetan answered.

Makedewa was leaner than Winn, a picture of wiry strength against the raw power of his older brother. Neither seemed ready to strike, as if the consequence of their actions echoed between them. Winn raised his sword with both hands, his thick forearms strained tight as he aimed it at Makedewa.

“Mercy? You have the power to return my wife to me, yet I should ask for your mercy? Why should I not take the life of your Blooded One? Tell me this, brother. Tell me why you decide who lives and dies!” Makedewa barked.

She saw Winn’s jaw tighten as he remained otherwise steady.

“I make no such decisions. None of us could have saved her, even by going back –”

“You lie!” Makedewa bellowed, brandishing his bryntroll. Winn landed a crushing blow with his sword that ripped the axe from Makedewa’s hand, and Makedewa launched himself at Winn. The men crashed to the earth, the sounds of their shouts and grunts exploding through the night. Bodies collided, fists pounded flesh. Winn was bigger, stronger, and it was not long before he held his brother’s face into the dirt. Although Winn jammed a knee into Makedewa’s back and held him down, the younger man continued to struggle, unwilling to abandon his misery.

“Enough!” Winn shouted.

“You should have killed her from the start. I promise you, brother, I will do what you could not!” Makedewa grunted. Winn closed his eyes for a moment, panting shallow as he shook his head.

“I will kill you first,” Winn said, his voice hoarse. He slowly rose to his feet, releasing his hold on Makedewa as he stood. Winn retrieved his sword and sheathed it, then picked up Makedewa’s fallen bryntroll. “Go,” Winn said. “Go now, while you still take breath.”

Winn tossed the bryntroll into the dirt at Makedewa’s feet. The younger man’s eyes seemed to burn black as he stood up, ignoring the weapon.

“Our uncle was wise. We should have obeyed him, in this and all things,” Makedewa said quietly.

Maggie felt her vision blur and realized she had been holding her breath. As Makedewa turned and walked away, she let it out in a rush. This time when she moved toward Winn, Chetan let her go, but she was stopped by Winn holding up his hand. She could not see his face with the way he held his back to her, and for some reason that scared her more than anything she had witnessed that night.

“Go to the children,” he said, his words low.

She watched as her husband’s shoulders dipped downward and he raised his hands to grip his head. It was not the time to make him ask twice, so she obeyed his bidding and left them alone. On unsteady limbs she made her way back to her children, the blessed numbness of grief sending her back down the hillside with it.

Sleep would not come. The empty bed beside her was all she could think of. Dagr had stirred when she returned, but he surrendered to his dreams with a few words of assurance and a pat on his back. The child had no idea what had happened that night, and truth be told she feared knowing the consequence as well.

Again, their lives had changed. Death and pain and anger, always a constant to balance the task of living. Would it ever change? She had no answer.

She could not stifle the gasp that left her lips when Winn’s slid into bed and placed his palm over her mouth, as he often did to keep her from waking the children late at night when he joined her. He was as stealthy as an assailant, and if she was not accustomed to him warning her that way she would have been afraid. Should she speak to him? Should she comfort him? What could she possibly say to ease his pain?

His eyes bored like daggers into her, unseeing, brimming with rage and destruction. In the dim light of the dying fire, she could see the outline of his face, etched taut to bursting, and a glimpse of dampness on his cheeks. His hand fell away from her lips and he stared at her, unmoving, for a long moment.

When she reached for him, he recoiled back as if burned, shifting away from her in one swift motion. Never had she felt such anguish from him, even in the darkest moments they had taken from each other.

“Don’t go,” she whispered. When he sat up and turned away she wrapped her arms around his waist, her hands running up his chest and strained shoulders. She pressed her lips to the nape of his neck, breathing in his thick scent, the taste of salt and smoke and damp night breeze like a brand on her mouth.

“I cannot stay,” he replied. She closed her eyes.

“Of course you can. This is home,” she said. She took one of his hands and laced his fingers through hers, reminding him of where his heart should rest.

“I…I cannot make this anger fade,” he said, his voice hoarse as he pulled away and bowed his head into his hands.

“Then give it to me,” she whispered, pushing him back onto the furs. “I am yours.”

He was tight as a bowstring, tensed, yet her words stirred him. The tension eased from his shoulders and he pulled her into his arms.

“I need you,” he whispered. “Let the world be damned, I need you.”

“I know,” she replied. “And I cannot be without you.” She meant it, and so did he.

He did not sleep until the early hours before dawn. Even then, when he rested for an hour or two, she did not think it was enough to tame the demon. Something was broken inside him that would not yield, no matter how hard he tried to bury his despair. She suspected he heard none of the soothing words she whispered, and by the time he left their bed she felt as hollow as the emptiness in his eyes. Her flesh felt bruised. Her soul was battered.

Early in the morning she felt him reach for her. It was only a questioning touch, a brush of his fingertips across her shoulder, but it was enough to let her fall back into the recesses of uneasy sleep. Yet he was gone when the sun finally rose and she woke. She busied about the morning tasks of tending the children, herding the tiny mob toward the Northern Hall as she placed Daniel in a sling. The child eagerly set about nursing as they walked through the village, content in his chore as the other children whooped and hollered around them. Kwetii grew annoyed with Malcolm stumbling alone, so she picked up her youngest brother and toted him along, finally plunking the child down on a bench once they entered the hall.

“Here, give ’em to me,” Gwen called, waving her arms. Maggie handed Daniel over to her aunt, glad for the reprieve and eager to find Winn. The men had not yet split off into work groups so the hall was quite crowded, the benches filled shoulder to shoulder as they grappled amongst each other for the morning meal.

Maggie finally spotted Winn. He was standing apart from the others near the head of the table, speaking with Erich. With the events of the night prior still haunting her, she hoped he would acknowledge her as he usually did. The way he slipped from their bed as she slept troubled her. She knew he was mourning his brother’s absence as they all were, and that to Winn it was a deeper pain than others endured. She did not recognize the man he had revealed to her, and that was the most frightening aspect of all. Had Makedewa taken Winn with him on his journey? And if he had, would he ever be able to return to her?

She was not consoled when Winn merely lifted his chin briefly in her direction, barely meeting her eyes across the room. Enough of a gesture to show he saw her, but enough to convey he would not speak with her. As she watched him leave the Northern Hall without another glance, her ire simmered. Yes, he was hurting. But she would not let him leave without a fight.

After checking that Gwen would watch over the children, Maggie followed Winn outside. She was stunned to find he readied his horse as if he prepared for a trip. His mount was packed with enough supplies she guessed for a two-day ride; so he meant to go visit Pepamhu at Mattanock. It made sense that Winn would wish to speak with him. She did not fault him for his journey. What rankled her was that her husband seemed to be leaving without even saying goodbye.

He was tying off a strap when she approached, but she knew he heard her by the way he paused. The muscles tensed across his arms, his shoulders tight beneath the edges of his silver fur vest. His voice was quite low when he spoke, controlled, as if he still fought his demons of the night before.

“No goodbye?” she said quietly. She came up close behind him but did not touch him, and he did not turn to face her. His skin bristled with goose bumps where her breath hit his bare arm, and she saw his fist clench and unclench on the rawhide tie. So he was not too far gone to be unaffected by her. At least she had that.

“You need no words. You know where I go,” he said simply.

His response stung. She struggled to stem her rising temper, reminding herself he was damaged, and that he needed something more from her than she had ever given him.

“You’re right. I know,” she replied. “I suppose you’re finished here.”

She was sure he did not expect her acquiescence. Perhaps he wanted a fight? He let out a sigh and his shoulders slumped forward, only slightly, but enough that she could see the battle leave him. The hand wrapped around the rawhide tie gripped into a fist, and he bowed his head toward the horse. She ached to touch him but did not, giving him the space to reach out in the way he needed.

“When I saw his pain, I grieved for him. I raged for why the Creator would take his woman. I would have forgiven him if only he asked,” he said softly. “Yet now, as I stand here, I tell you this: he will never spill your blood again. I will kill him first. My brother is now only another enemy. He has made his choice.”

She clasped her palm over her mouth, shaking her head as he turned toward her. No, she thought. Surely he did not believe his own words.

He reached for her, holding her at arm’s length. He caressed an outline down the edge of her face, then took a length of her hair between his fingers, staring at it for a few moments in silence before he dropped it. Finally his eyes met hers, and it was all she could do to match his gaze. Hollowed, barren blue eyes stared back at her.

“He was right when he said it was too late.”

“Winn, no –”

“What does that make me, Red Woman, that I would do such a thing?” he asked. His use of the title unnerved her, sending a shiver over her skin.

“He was wrong. You – you wouldn’t have hurt him. He’s your brother – I know you,” she whispered. He pressed his warm lips to her ear, his fingers tightening around her face. His breath sent tremors down her spine.

“You. Don’t. Know,” he said softly. “You don’t know…what I would do…to keep you.”

His lips traced across her cheek until his warm mouth settled over hers. He tasted bitter at first, a touch of the morning mead, but as he explored her mouth with his tongue he was hers again. Tender, then firm, giving and taking, until finally he sighed and bent his forehead to hers. His breath hitched as he crushed his lips to her hair and she let out a muffled moan.

“I know that you belong to me. Your body. Your soul. It is mine. Yet still, I ache for you. I am never finished with you. We never end,” he whispered. He pressed his lips to her ear. “We never will.”

When he pulled away she closed her eyes, hugging her arms around herself. She dug her fingers into her palms to stem the flow of tears. He deserved a brave wife, and she would give him one. She watched, wordless as he mounted up.

Though she kept her eyes closed, his voice echoed through the pounding hooves as he rode away.

“Two days,” he said.

She nodded. She would wait.

Chetan leaned back against the bench, sitting at her feet as the night grew dark. A spray of stars dotted the sky, a sprinkle of twilight springing to life overhead as they sat together. Maggie’s backside felt numb on the rough-hewn bench, her arms and legs aching from the work of reaping the harvest all day. With the summer drawing to a close and the scent of autumn nearly upon them, it was still warm sometimes at night and she was happy to enjoy it. As the children slept soundly inside the longhouse and night settled upon them, the only thing missing was Winn.

“It’s been two days,” she commented, more to herself than to Chetan. Yet he cocked his head up at her in response and made a low snorting sound.

“He will return. Spare no worry on that, sister,” he replied.

She felt her heart skip a little beat at his use of the endearment, and she battled the urge to embrace him in a fierce hug. Chetan was a kind-hearted man, but she suspected her unabashed displays of affection often embarrassed him. When he addressed her as sister, however, it melted the icy fingers clawing at her heart. It was the closest he had come to kindness toward her since Makedewa left, and she missed his friendship terribly.

“Thank you,” she said softly. He nudged her knee with his elbow, looking up at the sky.

“For what?”

“For being here.”

“Ah, where would I go?” he snorted. He continued to stare up at the sky as if her words were only casual conversation instead of the tentative stab at discussing their shared loss.

“I thought you might go to your father…”

“No. This is my place. I will be here when my brothers return.”

“Do you think Makedewa will come home?”

Chetan nodded.

“His spirit is so troubled, he must wander now. Yet a part of it is tied here, in the heart of his son, and I know he cannot run from that forever.”

“Oh,” she said softly. She was not sure exactly what to say to his explanation, but it made sense in some way. The Paspahegh believed the spirit of a man must be shown the way through life, and sometimes part of that lesson was the act of taking a journey. She knew Chetan had performed some sort of ritual near the ground where Rebecca was buried, but it was only natural that he would consider the flight of his brother’s spirit until he was at peace once more.

“There? See it? The star you tell stories of, the one that points the way. Perhaps it will point my brothers back to us soon,” Chetan said. She raised her chin and looked in the direction he pointed. He was right, it was a star they had spoken of together many times. Chetan enjoyed hearing things from the future, and sometimes she just needed to talk about the life she once lived.

“The Northern Star. I see it. I think you’re right,” she said.

“Hmpf,” he muttered with a grin. “Of course I am.”

She smiled. The clear night sky held many stories, a welcome distraction from the things they could not change. It was enough for them for the moment.

Winn

PEPAMHU LOOKED thinner than Winn recalled. His mother’s husband walked with a stilted gait, his legs bowed with the weight of time. As Winn watched him sit down across the fire, Pepamhu was seized by a fit of coughing, one that appeared to take the strength from the older man. Had it been so long since he last saw them? Surely Pepamhu’s hair had not been so white before, nor his hands so unsteady.

Winn listened to the elders speak, keeping his silence as they discussed the business of the village. He knew some of the older men, noting Pimtune with the crooked upper lip and old Kayaro, but he did not recognize many on the council any longer. Those left from the decimated Paspahegh tribe blended in with neighboring villages, and as far as the English were convinced, the Paspahegh had been exterminated.

The Nansemond had many of the same problems as the Norse. With the English expanding into Tsenacommacah, the Powhatan people were forced to leave or fight. Game was scarce, forcing the men to leave the villages for longer periods as they struggled to feed their people. Many of the smaller villages simply disbanded, their numbers decimated by disease or the fury of the English. Those who left their lands merged with other tribes, blending to gain some semblance of strength. The ones who stayed lost not only their homes, but their lives as well. Although Winn and Pepamhu were of like mind in keeping their people neutral, it was clear that time was coming to an end.

Soon there would be no choice. Fight what Winn knew was a losing battle, or abandon his homeland to the English forces. Neither option was one he was ready to accept.

“John Basse seeks an alliance, if our people will accept his Christian God,” Pepamhu said. Winn noted the abrupt silence. Powhatan men listened first before they voiced dissent. Although it was considered polite to give the speaker their attention, it was clear by the stony faces they did not care for the topic.

“He is a friend to me. If you choose that path, I think it will be a wise one,” Winn answered. He was truthful in his response, knowing what he did of the future. If Winn could encourage even a few of the Powhatans to the way of survival, then he would feel there was something he could do to ensure their blood lived on.

“Will you accept the White Christ, Winkeohkwet?” Pimtune asked. The old warrior’s twisted mouth turned up in a grin as he placed his palms flat together. He bent his head over his hands with a shrug. “I do not see how they call their God. He does not answer when I do this.”

A chorus of laughs broke the silence, bringing a smile even to Pepamhu’s lips.

“John Basse will ask us to be Christians, but he will not force it on those who object. He is not like the other English,” Winn said.

“He calls his land Basse’s Choice. Is that where you would have us live?” Pimtune asked. All faced turned to him at the question, silently awaiting his answer.

“It would be a safe place for our people. One where our women would be safe when we must leave them. One where our children need not fear attack – at least from the English.”

“Opechancanough will slaughter them, just as he will any Englishman. If our families are at Basse’s Choice, they will die as if we were traitors,” Pimtune said.

Pepamhu straightened his back as much as he could, rising up onto his knees as he leaned forward onto his walking stick.

“My son knows more of this than any man here,” Pepamhu said. “Speak, Winkeohkwet. We will hear your voice.”

Amidst the snorts and grumbles, Winn told them what he knew, and with each part of his story to them, his own future became clear.

The path was not one he wished to take, but it was his path, and he could no longer avoid it.

Winn

He watched from the edge of the tree line, his presence masked by the shadows of early evening twilight. He arrived home to find his wife missing, and when Gwen gave a mumbled excuse for Maggie’s absence, he suspected there was something amiss. It did not take him long to find her in the meadow with her uncle and cousin.

She was stubborn, he knew it well, but this time…well, this time his wife had gone too far. Winn knew she was troubled in the time since the English came to the village. Now, staring at his wife dressed in braies and wielding a sword, it became clear. Although their sword blades were swaddled with rags to blunt the blow, it still made a solid thud on impact. Cormaic landed a graze across her shoulder, and Winn did not know if he was angered or proud that his wife did not flinch.

Once again, Maggie defied him. She disobeyed his orders, and even worse, she cajoled his men into casting aside his command as well. Erich stood with arms crossed, surveying the training with his careful eye. Cormaic looked to be struggling more than Winn though he should as Maggie went at him with a sword. Cormaic was a skilled fighter; Winn could see he taught Maggie well.

Should he turn around and leave, pretend he never stumbled onto her secret? One part of him wished to let her have her glory, let her feel secure in her newfound skill. That was the voice of the one who loved her, the one who was a mere man when they stood next to each other. It would be easy to give it to her. After all, Maggie’s biggest fear was being beholden to others for her own safety.

Yet the command of the Chief within surfaced, and it was that man that could not let his woman carry on. Maggie had given her word she would stay out of the men’s business, and she had broken it. The danger of her broken vow had deeper implications than just the act; it was the false sense of security it gave her that was the most pressing problem. Maggie could not continue to think she was capable of standing up to fight. If he allowed her such illusion, he was betraying all he was as her Chief, and as her husband.

The snap of brush under his boots announced his presence as he left the shadows. Erich placed a hand on his knife and turned quickly to the sound, but when Maggie’s uncle realized it was Winn he relaxed. Erich’s eyes met his for a long moment, during which neither of them spoke. Finally, Erich swallowed hard, as if he prepared himself for some punishment. The older man ran a hand through his silver-streaked copper hair. As much as Erich deserved it for aiding Maggie, Winn would not chastise him. It was Maggie who was in need of a lesson.

“She fights well,” Winn said. Erich nodded.

“Aye, she does,” Erich agreed. Maggie ducked a blow and delivered a crack to Cormaic’s flank in return, and Erich smiled grimly.

“She disobeyed me.”

Erich appeared chagrined at that comment. He lowered his head with a sigh.

“She is my niece, Winn. If she must wield a weapon, it should be her kin that teaches her.”

“Her kin will protect her. There is no need for her to fight.”

“She has the heart of a warrior inside, surely ye see it. Ye know she is different than other women,” Erich said quietly.

“She is still only a woman.”

Erich snorted. “Well, I’ll leave ye to tell ‘er that. I’d have her put down her sword first, fer sure.” Erich whistled low against the tips of his two fingers. Cormaic and Maggie paused and looked toward them. Cormaic had the good sense look away from Winn’s seething stare, but Maggie was full on defiance. After the initial surprise at seeing Winn, she planted her legs and crossed her arms over her chest, her sword cradled between her breasts.

Despite her bluster, Winn could see her breath coming quick and shallow, and a touch of crimson creeping up the pale skin of her neck. The battle was evident in her demeanor, in those green eyes he knew so well. Succumb or fight?

As he walked toward her, her scowl deepened.

Ah, well, fight it would be then.

Cormaic muttered something about leaving them alone, but Winn was too focused on his wife to acknowledge it. She opened her mouth as if to explain, then clamped it shut. Instead of retreat as he stalked toward her, she revealed her weapon and met him halfway, her eyes gleaming with insolence and daring him to challenge.

He could not let this go. She might hate him after this moment. Yet if he must choose between her hate and her life, he would always decide the same. She was his woman, his wife. His life. And he could not allow her to continue down this path.

Her eyes shifted to his waist as he unsheathed his sword. Her new weapon was slightly smaller, fitted to her stature, yet just as deadly as his own if used well. He could see her effort to slow her breathing as he reached for her, and he knew she expected him to take it from her. Instead, he removed the padding from her blade and tossed it aside.

The lesson between them would not be blunted. Maggie needed to feel the force of the truth, there was no other way his stubborn wife would yield.

“I don’t want to fight you,” she said.

He leveled the tip of his sword at her breast.

“Why? Because you cannot fight? Because you are weak?”

“I’m not weak. I’m–I’m good at this!” she insisted, her voice rising a pitch.

“Then show me. I am your enemy now.”

He struck first, his blade screaming as it crashed down on hers. She went down on one knee with her sword raised over her head, blinking rapidly as she recovered. When she thrust upward to shove him away he stepped back, giving her a moment to recover. Strands of her red hair peeked out beneath the cap she wore, and it took one flick of his wrist to snatch it from her head. She let out a screech as her hair fell loose about her shoulders, the thick mass now a burden that impeded her vision.

He hated the anger in her eyes, the rank despair that swelled in her soul. Perhaps it was not normal to know another so well, but to him, it was akin to taking his next breath. He could feel her thoughts as if she screamed them, and when she raised her sword and charged him, he knew he had no choice but to carry on. It was a lesson she must learn, one he trusted no other to teach her.

“Is that all you have learned?” he taunted.

“I’m just as good as some of your men, and you know it!” she snapped.

With some effort he blocked her blows, met each swing of her sword. Yes, she was strong, with a power born of pure frustration and ire. The future life she had been born to had given her confidence, and it was that fire that drew him to her flame. In the end that would not serve her victory; it was her strength that would take her from him if she did not submit.

His eyes widened when she sliced the edge of his tunic with a glancing swipe.

“Oh, you are good, Fire Heart,” he agreed.

When he took a step back she grinned, and that moment of introspection was enough for him to pounce. He struck high, side-to-side, giving her half his might, until finally he put his weight into a crushing blow that flung her sword from her hands and sent her to her knees.

She scrambled away to fetch it, and he knew he could not let her. His vision clouded with a haze, and he told himself it was for her that he did it.

She must know she cannot fight like the men.

She must understand.

He snatched her by the back of her man’s tunic and shoved her to the ground, slamming her hand into the dirt when she reached for her weapon. As if she did not know she was beaten, she twisted beneath him and clawed at his face, drawing his blood with her jagged nails. He tried to see himself as a marauder, some enemy that would give her no quarter, yet it still burned him to feel her soft flesh gripped in his hands and see how he would leave bruises on the one he loved most.

He tossed her onto her stomach and pinned her with his body, ending any question that she might escape.

“You are not strong enough,” he growled. She bucked up against him.

“Get off me!” she screamed.

“I am your enemy! Is that what you say to your enemy?” he shouted.

“I’ll kill you!” she insisted, even as he pressed her face into the dirt. He looped his hand across her shoulders from behind, drawing his knife and pressing it into her neck as he drew her upward onto her knees.

With one hand he groped across her stomach, his heart like a blackened ember when he gripped the belt of her braies. She had been sneaky to steal his clothes. She writhed but did not cry, her chest rising and falling in rapid sequence as she struggled to free herself. He bent over her, his fingers digging into her skin.

“You are beaten, woman,” he whispered hoarsely against her ear. “You are weak. And I will end your life for your weakness.”

He drew the knife slowly across her throat, careful to cover the blade with his fingers, but the intention was clear. When he released her she did not move, remaining bent over on all fours, her hair hanging over her face as she panted.

He stepped away and stumbled, his eyes fastened on his wife. She finally stirred, turning on him. She stalked toward him, covering the space in only a few paces, then flung herself at him. Her open palm connected with his cheek and then her closed fist pummeled his chest. He let her have her revenge, letting her blows fall on his flesh until she raised her knee with intent to smash his groin.

“You bastard!” she screamed. “You just couldn’t let it go? Do you have to prove to me how helpless I am? Well, I know it! Every single day I’m reminded of it! I may be weak – I may be a woman – but I can still fight!”

When she raised her hand to strike him again he caught her wrist, slipping his hand along the nape of her neck to still her struggles. She refused to let him hold her, and he did not blame her as she slapped his hand away.

“No. When the time comes, you will not fight. You are weak. You are small. And you cannot win,” he replied. Her throat contracted as she stifled a furious sob, and though her eyes still flamed defiance she met his gaze.

“But I can fight. I won’t just sit here and do nothing again,” she whispered. He tightened his fingers in her hair, as if holding her close was enough to shield her from the truth.

“You can run. You can hide. When the time comes, that is what you will do.”

“So I’m helpless.”

“No,” he whispered. He clutched her face in his hands, smearing the dirt over her tear-stained cheeks as she clenched her eyes closed. He would not let her succumb to self-pity, forcing her to meet his gaze instead of run from it. “You are brave. You are clever. My woman is the most powerful one I have ever known.”

“But you said –”

“I do not doubt the strength in your heart. If it took only that to strike down your enemies, then I stand here, trembling in fear for them,” he said. “But it is more than that. If you fight you may take the life of a man, even two men. Will you be glad that you felled one man, while your children lay dead beside you?”

A strangled moan escaped her lips. Tears spilled from her jade eyes as she shook her head.

“No,” she said softly. Whether her response was to deny him or the truth, he was not certain.

“Then give me your trust. Do as I ask. If a time ever comes where I am not standing before you with my sword, you will run. If you have a choice, you will go, you will take our children and hide. You will see them safe. Only you can do that. Leave this fighting to me. It is my burden, the vow that I made. Yours is only to…go on.”

He sighed when she allowed him to pull her to his chest. She shuddered, with rage or fear he did not know, and as she succumbed to his embrace, he felt the fight leave him. The stark anger at her impudence and foolishness ebbed away, replaced with the heavy mantle of devotion he felt for her.

“I will strike our enemies down. I will wield my sword for you. It is I who will carry that task. It is I who will bear that promise. In this life and all others, I swear this to you.”

He felt her lips move against his skin.

“Because I am a MacMhaolian?” she whispered.

He clutched her harder.

“Because you are my beating heart.”

Winn joined the men in the Northern Hall after Maggie returned to their longhouse. As much as he wished he could simply stay with her, it was for her and his children that he must make plans. The sooner he could discuss the future with his men, the better off they all would be.

“That went well for ye, I see,” Erich chuckled, his eye on the tear in Winn’s tunic as Winn took a tankard of ale from him. It was not as sweet as the mead, but supplies had been scarce over the winter and mead making was no priority. Cormaic joined them, a burly eyebrow raised in question.

“No thanks to you,” Winn muttered. He glanced at Maggie’s cousin. “And no thanks to you, as well.”

“What harm is it, if it gives her peace?” Cormaic said. Winn winced at the whiff of Cormaic’s ale-tinged breath.

“It will give her no peace when she is dead. If there is a fight, she must take our children to safety. That is all I wish of her.”

Cormaic and Eric erupted into laughter, with Cormaic staggering into Winn with the force of his guffaws. Winn scowled.

“Do ye not see the Norse in yer woman yet, ye bloody fool?” Erich asked, taking a gulp of his ale. “Our women fight, they doona hide. ‘Tis not in ‘er nature to do anything else.”

“Ah!” Winn growled, shaking his head. There were differences between how women behaved in Norse society and Powhatan, but Winn refused to consider that his wife might fight at his side.

“Go easy on my niece,” Erich said as his laughter dimmed. He placed a hand on Winn’s shoulder.

“I will not, and neither will you,” Winn replied. “There is more to this. I spoke with Pepamhu. Some of the Nansemond will join with the people at Basse’s Choice.”

Erich and Cormaic both quieted, the mood turning decidedly somber.

“So ye think we should as well, is that yer plan?” Erich asked.

Winn nodded.

“We know what the future brings if we stay here. We cannot stop it. Maggie says some of the Nansemond survive to her time, and they come from those who live at Basse’s Choice.” Winn turned to Cormaic. “And what do you want? What say you?”

Cormaic downed his ale and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth.

“To lay down my head at night without fear of being killed in my sleep? To have a woman and some weans, like ye? Aye, it’s nothing much, really. I just want to live. Just live,” Cormaic answered. He muttered something under his breath and walked away, shaking his head. As Erich shrugged and took the opportunity to refill his tankard, Winn followed Cormaic out of the Northern Hall.

Cormaic staggered into the courtyard, taking a seat on the edge of the well. At first Winn thought he engaged in drunken nonsense, but he quickly realized Cormaic’s mood was much more dangerous. The copper haired Norseman shouted a slew of oaths in his ancient tongue seeming directed at the sky, then idly sliced his own palm with his knife. As he reached for something inside his shirt and Winn came closer, he could see it was Cormaic’s Bloodstone pendant.

Winn watched, frozen, as Cormaic closed his bloody hand around the pendant.

“No!” Winn shouted.

Cormaic grinned. His eyes met Winn’s and he started to speak, but Winn could not hear what he meant to say before he faded away.

“So it was tonight. I thought ye had more time here, son.”

Winn turned to Erich, who had come up beside him.

“What do you mean?” Winn demanded, his head spinning at the realization that Cormaic had just disappeared in front of him. Eric seemed exceedingly calm for a man who had just watched his drunken son fade into time.

“He’s not meant fer this time. He ne’er was,” Erich replied. Winn was shocked to see him take a long swig of his drink, as if neither of them should be concerned with Cormaic’s leaving.

“Where will he go?”

“Oh, to the past,” Erich replied. “How do ye think I knew what to name him?”

Erich muttered something about speaking to Gwen and made his way across the courtyard, leaving Winn standing alone. Winn stared for a long time at the well where Cormaic last sat, until finally he thought he might have the words to explain it to his wife.

Makedewa

It was dusk when Makedewa reached the village. He hunted alone, unwilling to walk among the Powhatan men who hunted in groups. Although he took shelter at night with his uncle’s family, he rarely remained near them, choosing instead to spend his time away from the others. He could see they feared him from the way the children stared, and the way the women stepped back when he passed.

It mattered not. He had never been well liked, in the Norse village or with the Powhatan.

Through the cover of swamp Cyprus he sat for a moment to watch, crouched amongst trailing Spanish moss with his feet burrowed in the mud. His toes ached with the numbness of the cold, and in another time he might have asked his wife to bring him a dry set of moccasins. Ever attentive, always his partner, Rebecca had known his needs before he even knew them himself.

Yet his wife was cold in the ground. Gone.

That tightness in his chest returned, sending his heart racing into a frantic tempo until the pain exploded between his ears. It tore through him, a scream of all his tears unshed, until he gasped for a breath and gripped his head in his hands.

Cool mud smeared over his face from his fingers, the heady scent of earth a temporary distraction from everything that was her. It did not soothe him, but it reminded him of when he was a boy and played in the woods with Winn and Chetan.

Winn, the brother who controlled the power of time travel. The brother who could wield that power to save Rebecca.

Winn – the brother who would do no such thing.

A rumble of laughter surfaced, followed by gleeful shouts. The hum of a rhythmic beat called to him. So it was a celebration in the village, he thought as he rose to his feet. The Powhatan village was well-attended, especially around the yehakin where his uncle slept. Makedewa recognized the men standing guard and was relieved; he knew them well, and he was sure they would permit him access.

He stepped away from the wood line and made his way to the yehakin. Weapons were drawn as he approached, and he was not surprised to hear the rustle of footsteps following him from behind. It eased him to know his uncle had so many warriors guard his people, unlike other tribes who had abandoned the old ways and opened their homes to the English.

“Tawnor nehiegh Opechancanough?” Makedewa asked, keeping his tone respectful as he spoke with the guard to inquire of the Weroance. Although he knew his uncle must be inside, he dared not assume, especially when he had been gone from his Powhatan kin for so long. He must be forthright with his requests, leaving no cause for distrust.

If they suspected he was an assassin, he would be dead before he passed through the door.

The warrior smiled when Makedewa lifted up two hares tied together by the feet. With a nod, the guard let him pass, and Makedewa entered the yehakin.

Opechancanough sat by the fire, tended by only one of his wives. When Makedewa approached, the old Weroance waved the woman away.

“Son of my sister,” Opechancanough said.

Makedewa obeyed the flick of his uncle’s hand and sat down before him. Although it was well known the Weroance preferred his solitude in the evening, Makedewa wondered if he was suffering from some malady. The Great Creator had favored Opechancanough for many years, but even the grace of the Gods was not enough to hide the evidence of his decline. Opechancanough was not well. His eyes were mere slits hidden beneath drooping lids, his skin a yellow pallor despite his brown color. When the Weroance raised a shaking hand to reach for a cup, Makedewa quickly fetched it for him.

Opechancanough sighed but did not thank him.

“You hunt alone again.” The words from his uncle held the tone of accusation, and Makedewa responded by placing the dead hares in front of him.

“I need only my two hands, uncle,” Makedewa replied.

“So I see. And when I have need of your two hands, what kind of man will serve me?”

Makedewa frowned.

“One who is loyal. One who honors you with the death of many Englishmen.”

The Weroance uttered a snort.

“My warriors say your brother will not send men. They say he is a woman who will not fight.”

At the mention of Winn, Makedewa felt his throat go dry. Although he was aware Opechancanough sent men to Winn’s village, it had not occurred to him that Winn might refuse a request for aid. Surely, Winn had lost all sense. Was his blind devotion to his Norse kin worth more than the Powhatan people who raised him? Was his vow to protect the magic bloodlines the only vow he would honor?

“His Blooded One tells him what must be done. She claims the Powhatans will not win this battle. She says our end is near, and it cannot be changed,” Makedewa said, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. He refused to speak her name, refused to feel any remorse for his words. Maggie had deserted him, just as Winn had.

Yet the image of Rebecca burst through his hatred and he could almost smell the scent of her hair as it lay across his skin. The memory of that morning burned bright.

“It is her birthday today,” Rebecca said as she snuggled closer against his chest. He absently twisted one of her golden curls between his fingers, enjoying the feel of her palm placed flat over his heart.

“So? Why must I care?” he muttered. She immediately pinched her fingers together and squeezed his chest.

“Because she is my sister, and we shall give her a marvelous gift!” she shot back. With a grin, her deflected her outraged blows and tossed her onto her back, dropping kisses along her neck and breasts until she screamed with laughter.

“Fine,” he growled through his smile. “A gift for your sister then.”

Rebecca loved Maggie. Yet Maggie stood by and let his wife die. Had Rebecca meant nothing to Maggie?

“Tell me more of what the Red Woman speaks. Tell me about the end,” Opechancanough demanded.

Makedewa raised his eyes, staring at his uncle yet not truly seeing him. Instead he saw his despair, swirling as a haze in front of his eyes as the thud of his heart slammed against his ribs.

Rebecca was gone. Why should he hide their secrets any longer?

It was a tale that would take some time to tell, but his uncle was a patient man. Makedewa started the only way he knew how.

“She says that Tsenacommacah will be no more…”

Norse Village 1638

Maggie

THE DAY WINN made his decision was fresh in her thoughts. Four years prior, her husband sealed a pact with John Basse. Since that time, those in the Norse village blended with the Christian people at Basse’s Choice, visiting freely and sharing resources as they gradually found trust in each other. She understood why Winn wished to form an alliance, especially knowing what she did of the future. Yet using their daughter to seal that alliance by marriage was not something she agreed with at all.

“Ouch, Mama!” Kyra cried as Maggie tried to mend her torn sleeve and pricked her with a needle. Kyra seemed a bundle of nerves, either unwilling or unable to stay still for the few moments it would take to fix her dress.

“Be still,” Maggie replied. “It’s not easy to do.”

“I can mend it myself,” Kyra said.

Maggie sighed. “No, I’m almost done. See? All fixed.”

She watched her daughter glance down at the sleeve and raise an eyebrow, but the girl shrugged and made no comment. Maggie knew it was not the most impressive line of stitches.

“Perhaps we should find you something more fitting for hunting,” she commented. Maggie knew Kyra hunted most days, despite Winn forbidding her from doing so alone. Maggie recognized the flame of independence in her child, one she readily identified with, her heart sinking at the knowledge of what was to come. How would her brave daughter react to the news of her betrothal?

Kyra stared warily back at her.

“What I have will suffice,” Kyra said quietly.

“I suppose it will,” Maggie said. “Do you at least take one of the boys with you? It’s the being alone that worries your father, especially when you’re too far from the village.”

“I do not go alone.”

Kyra focused her attention on her loose shirt, fiddling with the tie as Maggie watched.

“Good,” Maggie said. “You know there will be many people here during the gathering, and we’ll all be very busy. I want you to stay in the village – no hunting.”

“Will Morgan White join us? Da said there shall be Englishmen ‘ere, and Nansemonds, too. Surely Da willna mind it?”

Maggie smiled. Kyra kept her feelings about Morgan to herself, but Maggie had seen her watching the boy often enough to know her daughter’s heart. It only made things more difficult, however, since it was Maggie’s job to tell Kyra of her betrothal. Although Winn offered, Maggie felt it should be a conversation between mother and daughter.

“Yes, I’m sure all our friends will be here. John Basse will visit with his brother. Do you remember him?” Maggie prodded, trying to feel the situation out. She was not comforted to see Kyra’s face scrunch up in a most displeasing manner.

“Of course. Ye always make me sit beside him. I shall not this time, Mama. I’m no longer a child, ye canna make me sit with an old man,” she said. Kyra pushed her dark hair away from her face, tucking a wayward strand behind her ear. Her blue eyes, so much like her father’s, darkened with her display of disobedience.

“Kyra, you will have to –”

“Good day, Mistress!” John Bass interrupted, leaning his head inside the door. “How fare thee?”

When Kyra uttered a heavy sigh Maggie shot her a glare, which immediately served to stifle her daughter’s behavior. After speaking initial pleasantries with John, Kyra sat down on a bench and folded her arms while Maggie served their guest a spot of drink.

She supposed he was not an unattractive man for his time, with a swatch of muddy brown hair that seemed to be forever in disarray. He always wore a wide brimmed hat that hid his dark eyes, with a light homespun shirt buttoned neatly at his neck. Maggie glanced at Kyra, then back to John.

It could be a good match. Winn was right; they needed the alliance, and marriage was part of the bargain. Fathers had every right to arrange marriages for their daughters. It was the way of the time.

Once Kyra warmed up to John, they engaged in a lively discussion. Despite her opposition to sharing a meal with the older man, Kyra had been privy to many conversations involving religion. John was a devout Christian who spent much of his time spreading the Good Word, which he explained was his duty as a servant of the Lord. Part of his arrangement with Winn was that those in the village would consider converting to Christianity. Unlike many of the English, John did not demand immediate conversion. He believed that by continued interaction and tolerance between men, those in the Norse village would eventually accept Christ.

As John preached to Kyra, Maggie questioned if Winn meant to consider Christianity. If ever there was a man who respected all beliefs, it was her husband. The product of a Paspahegh upbringing and adult blood ties to Old Norse religion, Winn somehow navigated the delicate task of leading a widely diverse group of people. He fought to maintain good relations with his Powhatan family, just as he did with the Norse. Now, as the Christian Englishman sat in front of them, Maggie wondered how it would all fit together.

“Did ye know, Mama, that they eat the body of the White Christ? So that He may live in ye forever?” Kyra asked.

“’Tis not his actual body, my dear,” John chastised her, bringing a wry grin to Kyra’s face.

“Of course not!” she laughed.

“I am glad to hear it,” Maggie added with a smile.

Perhaps the path would make more sense as time wore on. As she watched her daughter debate religion with her future husband, she decided to let her news abide. She could discuss Kyra’s betrothal another day, leaving the two of them to learn a little more about each other in the meantime.

Kyra

Kyra watched from behind the brush, laying on her belly on the flat rock. It jutted out over a waterfall, the perfect spot to jump from to make a splash in the pool below. There was a rope hanging from a tree limb just in reach swinging idly in the humid breeze, and she considered grabbing it. Instead, she dismissed the childish desire as a different sort of playful longing washed through her. Morgan stood waist deep in the water below, his back turned away from her. He shook the dampness from his blond hair and sank down to his shoulders so that only his head remained above.

She rose slowly to her feet, shedding her gunna dress but leaving on her thin cotton shift. Instead of using the rope, she drew back a few feet and then took a running leap from the ledge as she uttered a gleeful scream. She crashed into the water with a squeal next to Morgan, who jumped away in a fright in the wake of her splash. As she came to the surface, she felt two strong hands close over her shoulders and she was unceremoniously hauled upward.

“Jesus, Kyra! Yer too old to play these games!” he snapped. He pulled her onto a shallow shelf where they could both gain their footing, and although he looked fighting mad, she suspected it was more bluster than ire.

“We used to jump all the time, did ye forget that?” she shot back with a mischievous grin. He shook her gently as if to chastise her, and suddenly she was aware of the heat of his damp skin against hers. Her shift clung to her body, her cheeks flushed when she followed his gaze. His soft brown eyes were focused between them where she was pressed up against his chest.

“We’re not children anymore,” he said quietly.

“We’re still friends,” she whispered. His eyes met hers, and she had never seen him so affected. This thing between them caused an ache in her belly, her pulse throbbing madly as suddenly the distance of their years felt like nothingness. His eyes no longer held the curiosity of a boy, but the shadow of a twenty-year-old man, and she hoped with all her being that he no longer viewed her as a simple child.

“It’s not a proper game for a lady to play, Kyra,” he murmured.

“I’m no lady,” she shot back.

“Oh, are ye not, now?” he said. She could feel her heart thudding through the wet cloth of her shift.

“No! Well, yes, I suppose I am, but – oh!” One of his hands twisted up into her hair, and he tilted her head back as he gazed into her eyes. Her lips parted with a tiny gasp as his mouth covered hers, seeking an answer she knew not how to give. Slow and sweet at first, then with budding urgency, she lost herself in his arms.

So kissing was a pleasant thing, she thought.

This was no nervous boy who held her, nor was his body that of a youth. He was firm and broad, his muscles tensed, his fingers pressing firmly into her skin. A surge of happiness clutched her heart at the thought that he finally saw her as a woman.

She sighed when he suddenly pulled back, his eyes glazed and his lips parted slightly open. It was as if he saw her for the first time, and then he clutched her close and buried his face into her hair.

“Morgan?” she whispered, confused at his abrupt change. He was shaking as he held her, but he would not let her draw away to see his face. His voice finally emerged, grated and hoarse against her ear.

“Go home, Kyra. Go now, before I canna let you leave,” he said.

“I’m no child to be ordered about,” she replied. She didn’t want to go—everything had changed between them.

He took her face into his hands, swallowing hard before he spoke.

“Aye, yer no child. And if ye dinna leave now, I’ll forget we’re supposed to be friends. Get ye gone, go home.”

“Is that what I am to you? Only a friend?” she asked, feeling her heart shatter into pieces. All the years she had spent trying to grow up as fast as she could for him, so that they could be together again without judgment, and he looked upon her as only his…friend. She felt her cheeks redden and she squinted hard to block the rush of tears.

“It’s not that–”

“Fine. Just forget this ever happened!” she shot back. She twisted away from him and climbed out of the pool as gracefully as she could muster. Her clothes were up above on the hillside, and it would be a climb to recover them.

“What are you doing here, cousin?”

When she raised her eyes it was to meet the dark stare of Ahi Kekeleksu, and by his stance she could see he was uncertain of what to do with her. She sloshed from the water and crossed her arms over her bodice, trying to avoid her older cousin’s inquisitive gaze. Even worse, behind him were Iain and Tyr, both with an equally perplexed look upon their faces. The young men were bare-chested in their braies, only seconds away from shedding the last of their clothes before they spotted her.

“I was swimming. Now I’m leaving,” she snapped, brushing past Keke. She felt some remorse over treating him so brusquely, but her cheeks were burning like cinders at the way Morgan refused her and it was all she could think of to get as far away from him as possible. All the years she had loved him, all the years he had waited. Finally, when she was old enough to matter to him, he cast her away without so much as an explanation.

Keke grabbed her upper arm. He was gentle, but his gaze darted from her to Morgan, who was still waist-deep in the water.

“Why are you upset?” Keke asked. He spoke close to her ear, low enough so that the conversation was between only the two of them. “Did Morgan ah, um, trouble you?”

“No. I am fine, and I thank ye for taking yer hand off me!” she hissed. “He’d rather swim alone, I’m just doing ye all a favor. Be off with ye, do what it is ye men do.”

He dropped his hand away and his gaze shifted back to Morgan.

“Very well,” he agreed. “Go home then, cousin.” Keke tapped her on the chin with his fist, and with a grin and a shrug he left her side to leap into the creek.

As she left the sandy bank, the sounds of laughter and splashing chased her back to her senses.

It had been a mistake to show Morgan how she felt. An enormous, devastating mistake.

Winn

“HOW DO WE FARE?” Winn asked.

Erich glanced at the women before he answered, watching for a moment as they tended to their preparations for the gathering. The village was full with guests from multiple places, English and Nansemond alike. Winn intended to throw a productive celebration that would strengthen ties between them all. The future of his family depended on the alliances made, and he would not fail in his task.

“Good, my lord,” Erich replied. “Enough to feed our guests and enough to keep our bellies full as well. Have ye heard if Pepamhu’s tribe will stay?”

“Yes,” Winn said. “There are not many, but they will join us.”

Maggie smiled as they approached. She continued stirring the food she prepared, which was likely some sort of venison stew from the delicious scent filling the air. Gwen added a bowl of sliced carrots, which slid into the pot with a splash.

“Will ye send Kyra to Basse’s Choice, or will ye wait until they wed?”

Winn shook his head. “She will stay here. John Basse will have a church wedding, so he says it must be. We will take Kyra there when they wed.”

“Chetan says the Christians will Baptize ye in yer sleep if ye doona say ye love their White Christ – should I lay with my sword, then, just to be ready?” Erich demanded.

“Ah, Chetan tells tales. John Basse may push you in the river to make you Christian, but he willna bother your sleep,” Winn laughed.

Maggie dropped her ladle. Instead of picking it up, she wiped a hand over her flushed face and left the Northern Hall. Gwen raised her brows but said nothing, and Erich shook his head with a sigh. Winn knew Maggie was opposed to Kyra’s marriage, but the time had come to face it.

Kyra would marry John Basse and join their families. They would all leave the village and join with the Christians at Basse’s Choice. Winn had arranged the match when Kyra was twelve, and now that she was nearly seventeen, he intended to honor it.

Winn found Maggie alone by the edge of the meadow sitting cross-legged on the ground. By the stiff outline of her back and the method with which she yanked random fistfuls of grass from the earth her mood was evident. As he stood behind her he let out a shallow sigh, giving her a moment to collect her thoughts before he pressed his intent. For all her strengths and faults there was one constant in his wife, and that certainty was that she hated being forced into anything. Most times they could come to an agreement, negotiate a truce. This time, however, was different.

There would be no other option. Kyra would do her duty. Maggie would abide. He could give his wife no choice this time.

“You didn’t have to run after me,” she said quietly without looking up. She resumed tearing at the grass, tossing each handful away as she liberated it from the ground.

“I walked. There was no running,” he replied. He slowly sank down beside her. When she uttered a doubtful snort but gave no further resistance, he took that as a sign she would listen. “Does it make you feel better, doing that?” he asked.

“No,” she murmured. He covered her hand with his when she reached for the grass again and she stilled, keeping her chin tucked down. Placing her hand carefully between his palms, he rubbed the dirt from her skin. She did not move away so he continued to hold her, pulling her gently toward him. When their shoulders touched, she let out a sigh and he felt her body relax against his. He smiled.

“Tell me a story about the future. There must be some things that stay the same,” he said.

“Nothing is the same. It’s completely different,” she muttered. He grunted his disbelief, which brought a smile to her lips, so he took the opportunity to put his arm around her shoulder. Her head dipped down and she immediately snuggled into his chest.

“Ah, I do not believe that. What about the sky? Does the moon still shine at night, or does the future only have sunshine? Go on, tell me,” he urged.

To his relief, he felt her shudder with a muffled giggle. He closed his fingers on her chin and tilted her head up as she laughed.

“What is so funny?” he demanded with a smirk. He loved to hear her laugh. There had been few reasons to smile of late and he would do anything to see the glow of her happiness once again.

“Oh, it’s just an old saying. I couldn’t possibly tell you there’s no moon in the future. It’s like blowing sunshine up your – up your ass!” she laughed. She shook so hard that tears spilled from her eyes and he could not help but laugh along with her once he gleaned her meaning.

“Blow sunshine up my ass? Is that the way women speak to their men in the future?”

She hiccupped as she struggled to control her giggles.

“It’s just a funny saying, that’s all.” Her fingers twisted into his tunic and she sank back down into his arms. Her laughter faded. “Of course there’s a moon at night. The sky is pretty much the same, I suppose.”

He pressed his lips to her forehead, kissing her gently as her voice grew wistful. It would make her feel better to speak of the life she once lived, and he enjoyed hearing her tales of the future.

“The moon seems brighter in the sky here, I think because there’s no light from the city. It’s easy to see the constellations.”

“What meaning is that?” he murmured.

“Constellations? It’s the word for the stars. Well, it’s more than that. The stars are in groups, and the groups are the constellations. See?” she replied, pointing out over the treetops. “That one that looks like a cup? Like it has a long handle? That’s the Big Dipper. One of the constellations.”

He nodded. He knew other names for the spirits in the sky, but he wanted to hear what she called them.

“And the bright one, you see the one all alone? Across the Big Dipper? That’s the Northern Star. It points the way.”

“To where?”

“Home. Marcus said he could always find his way home by it. His father taught him to navigate when they sailed. I didn’t know it back then, but he must have been talking about traveling on the long boats. It sounded amazing.”

An ache surfaced in his chest at mention of his father. There was so much about Marcus that Winn would never know. He held no jealousy that Maggie had grown up in the care of his father, nor that he had lived his entire life bereft of the man. At least with Maggie’s memories, Winn could know Marcus better in some small way, and it was that thought that gave him comfort.

“Those are things a man shares with his son. He gave you his trust.”

“He was different then. I guess he was always a little old-fashioned, and he had weird ideas about everything. But he let me make decisions. He listened to me–and so did Grandpa. Whenever something important came up, we sat down and discussed it. As a family,” she said.

“See? We talk, just the same as you did with Marcus,” Winn offered.

He felt her stiffen in his arms then and her breathing slowed.

“Marcus changed when he came here. He turned into a stubborn bully, and suddenly everyone is running around doing his bidding!” she replied. “Chief this, Chief that! It was like some stranger standing in his boots.”

“He returned here as a Chief. It would change any man,” Winn said quietly. “He sacrificed everything to see you safe in the future. He was what you needed, when you needed him.”

She twisted around to face him. Her slim throat tightened and contracted and he could feel her fingers grip his tunic.

“And you? Has it changed you, being Chief? Do you expect me to obey your every command, to never question you?”

His hand slipped up and he cupped her face in his palm, rubbing his thumb lightly over her cheek. Her green eyes blazed on the flicker of moonlight between them, her soft lips parted slightly open as she waited for his answer.

“I will always hear you, ntehem,” he whispered. “I made you that promise. I will keep it.”

“But Kyra–”

“I hear you. I know this is not how you were raised. When you want to rage at me for making this choice, I only ask you think of who I am. How I have lived, here in this time.” She tried to dip her head down, but he held her face firmly in his hands. “John Basse is a good man. He will be a good husband to our daughter. And by making this match, our people–our family–will be safe. It is my duty to see it done. I cannot yield on this.”

She leaned her forehead against his, closing her eyes, and her body tensed in his embrace.

“So I have no say in this?” she replied.

“You have my ear. But the decision must be mine.”

“I want our daughter to have a choice.”

“She will do as I bid her.”

Maggie jerked away from him, but he caught her shoulders before she could flee. The stubborn anger flared like beacons within her, the last remnants of her resolve fighting to be heard.

“As I will? So I must shut up and bear it?” she seethed.

“Yes! As I will bear it! See me, Maggie,” he growled, his voice trailing off as he gripped her arms. “See me. I do what I must. There is no one for me to argue with, no man to tell me yea or nay. It is on my head that this rests, this decision. Perhaps I am failing my daughter–and my wife. Perhaps this will lead our people into danger.”

She shook her head, but her eyes were riveted on his.

“Yet I think this is right. I believe this is the best path. I do not know what your future was like, that place you came from, but I know what our future will be. It will be here, with these people. I must do what is right for us all. We must join with the English if we wish to survive.”

He would not be swayed. His kissed her softly on her forehead and stood up, intending to return to his duties.

“Winn?” she said quietly. He turned back to her. Arms wrapped around her knees, she looked up at him with her soft green eyes.

“Yes?”

“I told her this morning. She said she will do her duty.”

He nodded. He wanted to say he expected nothing less from his daughter, but he did not think his wife needed that truth to be said. He left to join his men, giving his wife time to accept what she must.

There had never been such a large gathering since Winn lived in the village, and he found it fitting that they would leave their home after the pleasure of a grand celebration. It was a diverse assortment of people, with Norse, the English, and the Nansemond sharing the space. Winn knew his efforts to live apart from the war cost him the loyalty of many of the Powhatan, but he was strong in his convictions. Change would come and his family would endure.

A few of the Nansemond already lived at Basse’s Choice, more open to accepting the Christian ways than the Norse. John Basse was a devout man yet a patient one, and he believed that he was honoring his God by bringing more people into his fold. The Norse, however, were still suspicious, and it was not until after Kyra’s marriage that they would be willing to go. Winn knew he asked a great deal of his people by joining with the Christians. If they needed the promise of his daughter’s marriage to seal a commitment, then he was willing to give it to them.

Winn stood up from his chair, raising up his carved drinking horn. It had once belonged to his father, and his father before him, and each time Winn held it he was reminded of those who came before him.

“Hear me!” he shouted. The cries of celebration ebbed away with his declaration and head turned in attention.

“Ja, Ja!” was returned in agreement by the Norsemen, rising above the expectant murmurs of the crowd.

“Tonight we shall drink to the blessings bestowed upon us. This man, John Basse,” Winn announced, pointing to the Englishman in the crowd, “will wed my only daughter, the lovely Kyra Alfrun Neilsson!”

His last words were muffled by the roar of the crowd, the sounds of Norsemen thumping the tables and smashing their tankards drowning him out. Winn did not mind. He grinned and finished his ale with one long swallow, sending the people into another chorus of joyous shouts.

Winn knew he made the right choice when he saw Maggie lead Kyra to John’s side. There his wife placed Kyra’s hand into John’s, and Winn felt a surge of pride. He knew what it cost Maggie to concede her beliefs.

“Winkeohkwet.”

Winn glanced to his side at the sound of his name. Leaning heavily on his walking stick, Pepamhu joined him. Winn offered him his seat, which Pepamhu gratefully settled into, and Winn crouched down at his side as they watched the celebration.

“Did you enjoy the Norse meal, father?” Winn asked. Pepamhu smiled at the endearment and nodded.

“I did. Your Norse women may cook for me again.”

Winn chuckled.

“Though I fear this will be the last time our families share food,” Pepamhu said.

“Why is that?” Winn asked, taken aback. It had already been decided that Pepamhu’s people would join the other Nansemond at Basse’s Choice. Winn was eager for the day his family would all be safe in one place.

“Some Nansemond will stay here. But I will go north. We have friends with the Lenape who will welcome us.”

“I thought you meant to stay,” Winn said, trying to keep his voice level. It was Pepamhu’s choice to make, but his decision still fell heavy on Winn’s ears.

“At one time, I did. Now…now I see this is no longer our home. I wish you peace on your journey as it parts from mine, son.”

Winn swallowed. His dry throat tightened.

“I wish you peace, as well, father,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Pepamhu placed a hand on his shoulder. They watched their people dance and eat, enjoying what was left of their time together.

Maggie

The edges of the shells felt like smooth rocks beneath her probing toes. She thrust her feet beneath the sand, delving deep into the shallow seawater pool. It was a spot she often found a nest of clams, and the thought of having a basket full of fresh seafood made her mouth moisten in anticipation. She dug one out with her big toe until it released from the sand with a faint sucking sound, popping up where she could snatch it with her fingers. She swished it around until the grey shell was clean, then tossed it in her basket which sat a few feet away on a flat rock. They would eat well tonight.

The gathering took a toll on her. Winn stayed up with the men until the sun graced the sky, and she spent a sleepless night in their bed alone. With her worry over Kyra’s arranged marriage, it was probably best she had some time alone with her thoughts.

She pushed her skirts up between her knees with one hand, holding the layers in one fist as she bent to snatch another clam from the pool. Too engrossed in digging out her dinner, she did not hear Winn until he was well up upon her. She let out a squeal as he swept her up off her feet and deposited her firmly on her backside on the rock beside her basket.

“You scoundrel!” she laughed, shoving him back with one hand as he tried to plant a kiss along her low-cut neckline. She had shed her dress on the beach and wore only her old threadbare shift, unwilling to risk salt-stains on any of her better dresses. She had not expected any company when she set out to gather clams.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he chastised her. She leaned back as he bent to kiss her again, swatting his hand and squirming back away from him.

“What has got into you?” she asked

“I missed my wife. Is that not enough?” he murmured. She relented a bit, relaxing when he wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Here, hold this, so I can bury my face in your–”

Her eyes fluttered open and she let out an indignant squeal when she realized he was not alone.

“Winn! The boys are with you!” she hissed. Dagr and Malcolm were indeed running down the beach toward them, with a full view of their mother in the arms of their unrepentant father. Winn let out a low snort and shook his head, distracted for only a moment before he bent his head back to her.

“They will see we are busy and go away,” he reasoned, his voice edged with boyish petulance as he stared down at her. She bit back her own laughter and gave him a shove, eliciting a frustrated groan from him while she tried to disengage from his embrace. At a stalemate, he rested his head against her shoulder for a moment, then uttered a sigh.

“Boys!” he shouted. His words were somewhat grumbled, but they heard him and came to attention at the sound of their father’s voice. Twelve-year-old Dagr was the image of Winn, his expression shielded with both respect and curiosity as he faced his father. Malcolm stared openly at them, his blue eyes wide across his round little face.

“Yes, Da?” both boys echoed in unison. Winn cast a stern glare at them.

“I have an important duty for you,” Winn said. The boys nodded eagerly, their attention seeming entirely on their father rather than the spectacle of their disheveled mother, for which she was grateful. “In the woods where the trail splits there is a nest. I think I saw a few goose eggs. Gather them for our dinner,” he ordered.

“Yes, Da!” the boys answered, taking off in a sprint back toward the wood line. As Maggie watched them race away, Winn resumed his attempt to catch her attention. Clearly pleased with himself for the clever distraction, he grinned down at her.

“I think I lost my way,” he murmured, kissing her cheek lightly.

“You’ve found it,” she answered. She felt his lips turn into a smile against her ear as he attended to his task.

Later, they sat on the sand together and waited for the boys to return. Remnants of afternoon skittered away, leaving a glimmer of amber-kissed echoes across the water. She pressed her lips to his chest, over the shallow scar that marked him, and he whispered sweet words in his native tongue against her ear.

“Da! We found the eggs! Shall we cook ‘em?”

She nestled her head into his shoulder as Winn muttered an oath. Dagr and Malcolm stood a few feet away on the beach, their arms filled with large pale eggs.

“Put them in the basket, we will tend to them. Go find wood for the fire,” Winn answered. She felt him sigh.

“They did what you told them,” she smiled.

“Yes, they did,” he replied. He slowly sat up, releasing her. “But I saw no eggs, I know not where they found them.”

Maggie giggled, smacking him lightly on the arm.

“So you sent our sons on a wild goose chase?” she asked. He shrugged.

“I thought it would occupy them longer.” He caught her hand and raised it to his lips, kissing it solidly. “I would do much more than lie to have you to myself, ntehem,” he whispered. His eyes still shimmered with boyish charm, but she glimpsed a shadow of darkness in his gaze before he left her to chase the boys down the beach, making terrible whooping sounds to urge them on.

She twisted as much water as she could from her sodden shift, and then pulled her brown gunna dress over it. She was not a fan of such brazen displays of affection in front of her children, despite Winn insisting that children saw no shame in those things. Living with the Norse, however, lent to a blending of cultures, so it was only in the privacy of their own home that the topic arose. Despite her attempts to meld into her life, she had an inkling that some issues would always be a struggle.

Malcolm made it back to the fire before the others. He plopped down into her lap without invitation, his narrow little chest rising and falling as rapid as a bird as he recovered from the run. He was a wiry sandpiper in her arms, covered in grit and damp with seawater. Even his hair was saturated, and when she kissed the top of his head she could taste the salt in his locks.

“You need a bath when we return,” she murmured. She stoked the fire with a long stick and gripped him with the other hand as he squirmed.

“Aww, no Mama, not today!” he whined.

“Yes, today, if your mother says so,” Winn interrupted. He deflected a blow from Dagr and grabbed his elder son around the waist, throwing him up over one shoulder as the boy screeched. “And you, too, mud-face. You stink like sons of a bull, not the sons of a Chief.”

Malcolm scrambled from Maggie’s lap and joined his brother. The boys took turns poking the eggs with a stick as they cooked over the fire next to the clams. Dagr crouched down, his long black hair falling tangled around his face, his lean arms extended out as he wrangled the crackling fire. Malcolm stood next to him, watching, always the shadow to his older brother’s sun. Both boys resembled Winn, and in Dagr the resemblance was most stunning, but Malcolm held a bit of what Maggie recalled of her grandfather. Even with his sun-kissed skin tone and dark hair, young Malcolm had the squared jaw and straight nose that marked him as Norse, different from that of his father and brother. His hair tended to curly rather than straight, and when damp it wrapped around his ears in ringlets. Despite their looks, in essence the boys belonged solely to Winn; whether from sheer admiration of their father or the image of their shared mannerisms, they clearly came from his blood. Norse or Indian, it did not matter, only that it was the same blood he passed from his ancestors onto them.

Winn settled down next to Maggie, sprawling out beside her on the sand as he perched on one elbow. She felt the warmth of his skin as his hand slid over her thigh, resting there as if she needed any other reminder that he was with her. Her lips formed a smile as she felt him gently squeeze her leg.

They took the meal amidst gleeful conversation, the boys filled with stories from the gathering of the night prior. Dagr was most impressed with the weapons the English men had, the strength of their firepower seeming to have left a lasting impact on the boy. He chattered on about it, his admiration flowing over in an excitable jumble. Malcolm, however, was not so impressed, pointing out that Winn’s bryntroll could fell a man as easily as a musket, and with no need for the fire-powder that the English required to make the guns work. As their bellies filled, the boys soon fell silent, resting on their backs as they stared up at the stars.

“Our daughter seems pleased with John Basse,” Winn said. Maggie shrugged, unwilling to agree entirely.

“She didn’t say much,” she replied.

“She did not object,” Winn persisted.

Maggie sighed.

“No, she did not. She won’t disobey you.” It was the most Maggie was willing to concede. Yes, Kyra agreed to the match and had spent much of the evening on the arm of her betrothed, but Maggie worried with the way Kyra acted so subdued. She knew she had difficulty accepting an arranged marriage simply because of the way she had been brought up in the future. It was all she could do to keep her opinions to herself, especially when she knew it was what was best for their future. After all, arranged marriage was the norm in the seventeenth century. Having a say in those matters as a woman was not.

“We should go back,” Winn commented. Maggie could hear an easy snore from Malcolm, curled up beside his brother.

“All right,” Maggie replied. Although she had enjoyed the quiet afternoon away from the village, it was late, and the others might worry if they did not return soon. A war party searching for the Chief’s family was the last thing they needed.

They left Malcolm sleeping while they gathered their few supplies. Winn surveyed the site with a nod, and then bent and gathered his youngest son in his arms. Maggie reached for Dagr’s hand but the boy slipped away, as he often did, his lips graced with an apologetic, but stern smile. Dagr had told her earlier in the week that he was too old to hold her hand any longer, and she grimaced at the memory but let him go without a fight.

“Da?” Dagr asked. The boy trailed behind, dragging a long stick with the empty clamshells tied to it.

“Hmm?”

“Do ye think ye ought to stop trying to make more weans with Mama? We have enough to bide,” Dagr said. If Maggie had not heard it with her own ears, she would not have believed the words from his mouth, but at the sight of her eldest son’s serious face she clamped her mouth tightly closed. Winn raised an eyebrow, slowing to meet Dagr’s pace.

Dagr planted his heels shoulder width apart in the sand as Winn placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Is that so, Dagr?” Winn replied evenly. Dagr glared past Winn, refusing to meet his gaze, his chest heaving with short bursts as he seemed to fight some demon unknown. She had never seen her son so agitated, but Winn seemed to know what ailed him. Winn gently set the sleeping Malcolm in her arms and whispered softly against her ear.

“Go on ahead, ntehem. We will not be long.”

He kissed her cheek, a grin on his lips, and patted her bottom as she walked away. She tried to give Dagr a smile, but the boy refused to acknowledge her gesture. Maggie heard Dagr utter one of the half-snort, half-grunts that the Indian men were known to make and she knew Winn had his work cut out for him. She left them on the path and made her way back to their Longhouse.

Malcolm was snoring soundly in his cot when Winn finally slipped beneath the furs beside her. She nestled back against her husband, her hips fitting into him as he molded his warm body to hers.

“Dagr?” she inquired. She did not know what to ask, or if she even wanted to know what sort of conversation they had, but her curiosity won the better of her as Winn kissed the nape of her neck.

“He had many questions. I think I answered them all,” Winn replied with a chuckle.

“About what?”

“Oh, it seems he saw Ahi Kekeleksu with an Indian girl. They wandered away from the gathering, and the boys watched them. Dagr had…questions.”

“Was Mal with him?” Maggie hissed. She groaned when her husband nodded.

“He and a few others. It seems I should speak to my nephew as well,” Winn muttered.

“Mal is too young to–to know about that yet! And so is Dagr, for that matter!”

“Shh,” Winn admonished her, covering her lips with his mouth. “Dagr is still awake, and he will hear you. Do not shame him, he is old enough to speak of it.”

“So what did you tell him?” she asked, trying to control her tone enough so that only Winn could hear her. He kissed the tip of her nose.

“I told him when he is a man, he will want to lay with a woman as well,” he replied. “And that he will find great pleasure in that task.”

“You make it sound like a game,” she replied. He took his head in his hands and stared down into her face, shaking his head.

“No, I did not. I told him someday he will want only one maid, and until then,” he whispered, “I told him to keep his little prick in his braies and forget about pleasuring woman. And that if I wish to make children with his mother, I will do so, and it is none of his concern.”

He stifled her laughter with his mouth.

“I think we need more practice,” he grinned.

Kyra

SHE AVOIDED MORGAN for the remainder of the week, her heart broken and battered after the gathering. It was easy to adjust her hunting times rather than risk running into him again. After all, how could they go back to their normal routine when he had rejected her so horribly? Although she missed his company, she was sure it was better for them both. Even if Morgan suddenly declared his love for her, she was betrothed and there was nothing she could do to change it.

So when he sank down beside her in the tall grass one day as if nothing had happened between them she was near startled into silence. Nearly, but not quite.

“What are ye doing here?” she demanded.

He grimaced, avoiding meeting her stare as he adjusted his bow.

“Hunting. What are ye doing?”

“Hunting,” she whispered with a scowl.

After that they resumed their afternoon outings, neither speaking of the day at the waterfall nor making any acknowledgement that anything might be different between them. Things gradually resembled the easy way they had with each other, talking about everything… and nothing at all. It was not perfect, but they continued to spend each afternoon together.

It was a day like any other when they sat crouched over in the tall grass, the soft cattails brushing her skin with the rhythm of the afternoon breeze. The meadow was a clever spot for tracking prey in the early spring as the reeds were still short yet tinted to a yellowed hue, hiding them well as they lay in wait. As she shared a sip from his flask, she wondered if she had the courage to follow through with her marriage and berated herself for the doubt. Of course she would do it. She must obey her father.

Yet as Morgan glanced over at her with his soft brown eyes, gleaming with a gentle curiosity, she felt the heat rise unbidden to her face. They had not spoken of that day at the waterfall. They continued on with their afternoon hunting escapades as if it had been only a dream.

Across the meadow, a spotted doe looked up. Her wide eyes turned in their direction and her tiny snout lifted, as if she caught their scent as they stalked her. Kyra adjusted her bow before she moved from her crouch, notching the arrow and drawing back the string. With a practiced motion she rose up on one knee and let go, the arrow spearing the air ahead of the soft twang sound.

She lowered her eyes as the doe skittered away, unharmed.

“That was terrible. Have ye webbed fingers today?” Morgan laughed.

“Not likely, ye bloody lout.”

“Then what are ye afraid of?” he asked, his hand settling next to her as he tilted his head in wait. It was her chest that felt like a bowstring then, plucked tight and tensed to burst. His face was entirely too close to hers, his breath teasing her skin with a presence that was not entirely unpleasant.

“Fear? I think not,” she scoffed. She spoke the words bravely to hide her discomfort, but he knew her better than that and she watched his mouth twist into a grin. She drew back away from him but did not go far, unwilling to diminish his amusement. It made her happy to see him smile.

“No?” he murmured, his fingers brushing her cheek. His touch sent a flurry of tingles through her skin, down through her chest where it settled as an ache deep in her belly. Yet it did not seem like her belly that ached. It was another spot, an entirely foreign sensation she had only glimpsed once before in his arms.

“Yer barmy, if ye think I fear anything,” she whispered, her voice trailing off. His lips curled into a grin. “If I recall correctly, ye were the one who was afraid to kiss me.” She instantly regretted her words, her heart thudding so hard against her chest she thought surely he could hear it.

“’Twas not fear,” he muttered.

“Then what?” she whispered. Before she belonged to another, she needed to know why. After all the years she had loved him, why could he not love her in return? Yet still he hunted at her side each day, meeting her in secret despite what her father would do to them if they were discovered.

“There are things ye dinna understand,” he said.

“Because I have no sense?” she asked, defensive when she thought he meant to insult her.

“No!” he sighed, rolling onto his back. He ran his hands over his face and through his thick blonde hair. “Ye are clever and pleasing in every way.”

Utterly confused, she leaned over him, placing one palm flat on his chest. Her fingers rested between his opened shirt buttons, and he sucked in a breath at the shock of the connection. Yes, she would be married, and yes, she would do her duty, but she would ask one last thing of her oldest friend before that happened.

“Morgan?” she said softly. “Would you kiss me again?”

His breathing slowed and he stilled. Her eyes moved slowly from his chest to his face, which seemed scrunched as if he were in pain.

“Please?” she murmured, intent on wiping the pained look off his face.

“Kyra,” he whispered, his voice strained.

She parted her lips and pressed her mouth to his, letting out a sigh as she quickly pulled away. There. It did not seem nearly as intense as their last encounter but it was not so bad.

“Was that proper?” she asked. His pained look remained, yet intensified, his cheeks flushed as he looked at her.

“No,” he murmured. “I fear I must show you the proper way.”

With a swift motion he placed her gently on her back and his mouth descended upon hers. This time it was his fingers tangled in her hair, and his hand cupping her jaw very carefully. His opened lips were soft, yet she yielded to the pressure, his tongue meeting hers in a delicious torture. His thumb caressed her throat, and he pulled her closer so that her body fit snugly within his embrace.

“Oh,” she sighed, her head tipping back as she lost herself in the delicious sensation. So that was it. That was what she had been missing since their time at the waterfall!

Suddenly, he broke their connection and pulled away with a low uttered curse.

“Did I do it wrong?” she asked, breathless. He shook his head, but the pained look on his face was worse than before.

“No, you did it quite well,” he said, his voice hoarse. “We canna do this. I shall go.”

She felt her stomach drop. Had she been truly awful?

“But why? I–”

“Because kissing ye like this makes me want ye more.”

“Then kiss me again,” she insisted. Her heart raced and her pulse pounded in her ears when he looked at her, filled to bursting with knowing he wanted her. It seemed she had waited her entire life and it could only be him. She resolved to see it through. Let me be with the man I love, she thought, before I must wed a stranger.

“No. Ye know not what game you play, nor how it will end. Yer too young to…”

“I’m not too young. You know I’m not.””

“Kyra, please…this is madness.”

“But you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

He closed his eyes and his words were shallow through tight lips.

“Yes, I have.”

“Then you will show me,” she whispered.

“Do you truly know what this means?” he answered. She nodded. She knew what she was doing, she was certain. If she were meant to be a wife to an Englishman, then she would do her duty, but she would at least have a notion of what it meant to be with one she loved. She did love him, after all, the flustered man who held her. It was him she thought of when her father proclaimed her betrothal, and when the Chief announced it was John Basse she would wed she thought her heart would be torn from her chest.

They lay together afterward side by side, hands entwined, staring up at the willow leaves above them. She worried he was angry, but she did not regret it. She would never regret a moment of their stolen time, even when she became a wife to another.

“They’re making me wed John Basse.”

“What?”

“I have no choice. My father arranged it.”

He rolled over and covered her body with his, leaning on his upper arms as he looked down at her.

“I will speak to yer Da. Do ye think I would let ye marry another, after this?”

“After this? But you would let me marry him if ye hadn’t swived me, wouldn’t ye? So what is the matter of it?”

“You think that’s all ye are to me?”

“You didn’t want to do this. I made you.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Ye made me? I think not,” he said.

“You didn’t want to.”

“I have always wanted ye, ye wee besom! Have I not met ye here, every day I could steal away, even knowing yer father would kill me if he found out?”

“We’ve been friends forever,” she whispered.

“Aye, friends. And now ye’ll be my wife.”

“But what about John Basse?”

“I’ll not let ye marry another. Ye could be with child—my child—did ye ever think of that?”

She paled. No, she had not considered that notion.

“My father will kill you,” she whispered.

“Aye,” he agreed with a sigh. “He will.”

When the village was in view she made to run toward it, frustrated tears blurring her vision, but he pulled her back into the sanctuary of trees. He kissed her hard as if he meant to possess her, then softer as he brushed away her tears. She twisted her fingers in his hair, holding him close when he tried to draw back. Panting, he rested his forehead to hers.

“Go inside. I will follow to speak with yer father,” he murmured.

“Today? Ye mean today?” she whispered, glancing off toward the Northern Hall.

“It must be today,” he insisted.

“I will wait for ye.”

“No, go to yer mother. I must speak to yer Da alone.”

She stepped back away from him, and although their hands were still entwined she avoided his gaze. The depth of what they had done felt like a weight across her chest, and she prayed her father would not hurt him when he found out. Chief Winn was not known for being a subdued man, and in fact, when it came to his family he behaved like a rogue. One simply did not argue with her father; once his will was declared, it was done.

“Ye do not need to do this,” she said softly. His round brown eyes narrowed into slits as he squinted down at her.

“I canna let ye wed another when I’ve taken yer maidenhead.”

She felt the confusion rise again, that sliver of doubt.

“So it is only because of that ye’d ask for my hand? If that is yer only concern, then consider yerself free. I willna speak of it. I’ll marry John Basse and pretend it never happened,” she whispered, turning her back to him. She heard him chuckle softly and she was not at all pleased. His hands fell onto her shoulders, gripping her gently as he spoke close to her ear.

“D’ye think a man would not know, lass? For a woman who knows it all, ye know too little,” he teased. She swung around.

“I know ye wouldna stopped my marriage if not for today,” she snapped. He frowned.

“I would have if I had known! Ye should have told me!”

“Ye dinna seem interested!”

“I was! I am! For the love of Jesus, woman, why do ye think I return here to meet ye, when I know yer father would see me dead? It’s not to shoot rabbits, that’s fer sure!” he shot back, letting out an exasperated sigh.

“So ye pretended to be my friend?” she hissed. He threw his hands up in the air.

“If I came to ye as a man wishing to bed ye, I’m damned. If I came to ye as a friend, I’m surely damned. What answer would ye have of me, ye thorny hellcat? What, then?” he bellowed.

“Ugh!” she screamed, her voice echoing shrill through the woods. He lurched forward and clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Are ye daft? We’ll be seen, and then yer father will never give me his ear!”

“Well, what would you have my ear for, Englishman?”

Kyra felt her blood drain to her toes as her father and uncle stepped into view. Uncle Chetan wore a smirk, but her father was not amused in the least. He looked quite murderous, in fact, and by the way Morgan swallowed hard she could see he noted it as well.

“My daughter. Unhand her,” Winn ordered in a clipped tone. Morgan dropped his hand.

“Da,” she said. He scowled at her and uttered a half-hiss, half-grunt condemnation, so she clamped her mouth shut. She was sure her cheeks must have been scarlet.

“I thought I told you to stay away from my village, boy,” her father said.

Morgan ignored the question and stepped forward, pushing Kyra slightly behind him. Uncle Chetan tried to hide his amusement as he placed a hand on Winn’s shoulder.

“Do not kill him now. Wait until after the meal, brother,” Chetan advised. Kyra shot him a seething glare over Morgan’s shoulder.

“I-I would ask for yer daughter’s hand. I wish to wed her, without delay,” Morgan said bravely. She felt her heart soften a bit with his words. Perhaps he did care for her, after all.

“Oh? Why so quickly?” Winn asked through gritted teeth. Kyra closed her eyes. Surely he would not tell her father. He would not…would he?

“Because she is no longer a maid, and I would not forsake her.”

She was suddenly shoved out of the way when her father reached for Morgan’s throat. Uncle Chetan tried to pull him off, but it was no use. Winn pinned him up against a tree and lifted him onto his toes as he gasped for air.

“Da!” she screamed, scrambling to grab his arm.

“I’ll kill you!” Winn shouted. “She’s betrothed, you bloody fool! And you!” he hollered, turning on her. “Have you no sense?”

“Oh, great Odin!” she snapped, rolling her eyes as the men struggled. She was thoroughly tired of men questioning her intelligence.

“Odin will not help you, Kyra! Go to your mother, I’ll speak to you later,” he ordered.

Morgan shoved Winn, surprising them all as Winn took a step backward. Although his face paled, Morgan grabbed Winn’s collar and shoved his face close to her father’s.

“Ye’ll keep yer hands to yerself, ye hotheaded fool!” Morgan shouted. Winn’s eyes flared wide. She felt her heart skip as her father drew his knife and put the blade to Morgan’s neck.

“Please,” she pleaded, grabbing Chetan by his tunic when Winn ignored her. “Stop them!”

Winn let go of Morgan before Chetan could intervene. Morgan staggered backward against the tree but recovered quickly, standing up straight to face her father. Winn’s chest heaved, his eyes narrowed on Morgan.

“Leave. Never return here.”

Winn turned to Kyra, grabbing her by the upper arm. She bit back the hot tears as he hauled her back toward the village.

“I love her. I will marry her.”

Abruptly her father stopped, shaking his head. She tried to twist her arm away but he was not yet ready to let her go. Morgan stood defiantly in Winn’s path, refusing to retreat when Winn approached.

“Ye do?” she asked.

“I do. I’ve always loved ye,” Morgan replied. She ignored the chuckle from her uncle.

“I didn’t know –” she said.

“How could ye not? Dinna I tell ye as much when we –”

“Enough!” Winn roared. “Must I kill you to stop hearing this?”

“You cannot kill him, brother,” Chetan interrupted. Kyra thought he winked at her, but she was not certain. “He once saved your life, do you not recall?”

Kyra winced when Winn released her. He placed his hands on his hips, pacing away a few feet before he glared at the three of them. Chetan motioned at Morgan to follow.

“Come with us. My brother may want to kill you later,” her uncle quipped.

CHAPTER 19

Winn

WHEN JOHN BASSE ARRIVED unannounced, Chetan offered to help Winn look for the wayward Kyra. At the time, he believed his brother only meant to help, yet as Winn sat staring at Morgan White, he suspected Chetan knew what they would find all along.

He glared at Young Morgan across the expanse of the long table. Yes, as a child Morgan had delivered a message to save Winn’s life, but Chetan was surely mistaken if he believed that fact might keep Winn from gutting the man. With every moment that passed, his desire to throttle Morgan grew, and it took all his willpower to stay in his seat.

Kyra sat next to her mother, her gaze focused on the far end of the table where Morgan sat with Keke. He noticed Maggie elbow their daughter, and the way their heads tilted together as they shared whispers between them. His fury only flared more knowing his wife had no issue with what Kyra had done.

Seated to his left was John Basse, who did not seem at all displeased with the lack of attention Kyra graced him with. If Winn had not been so blinded by anger he would have questioned both the unannounced visit and John Basse’s disinterest in his daughter. Chetan, however, was the most jovial of the group, chuckling with Eric and making sure to include John Basse in their discussion as Winn sulked at the head of the table.

“I thank ye fer this meal, friend. I regret the short visit, but there is much I need to discuss with ye,” John commented as he shoved a piece of meat in his mouth.

“My home is yours, as you know,” Winn replied. “The husband of my daughter is always welcome at my table.”

Chetan snorted and took a gulp of ale as he smiled.

“Ah, well, yes, of course. The reason I trouble ye today is –”

Winn dropped his tankard and jumped to his feet, his chair slamming over onto the floor as he rose. In the few moments his attention turned to John, Kyra had left the table.

His vision blurred crimson as he went after her. He should have killed Morgan on sight. And his daughter? She needed to be inside, at least making the pretense that she liked the company of her suitor. How could she behave in such a manner, when there was so much at stake? It cut him to know his daughter had so little care for her people. They needed the alliance with the English to survive.

“Get back inside. You’ll take my seat next to your betrothed,” Winn barked as he approached his daughter. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, her dark hair trailing back off her face in the evening breeze. He did not care for the way she glared at him, unaccustomed to defiant behavior from her. Yes, she had always been strong willed, owed entirely to her obstinate mother, but this was much worse.

“I will not. And I shall not marry him. Ye canna make me!” she shot back. Her lip quivered but she held her ground, even when Winn came closer.

“Yes, I can,” he growled. “I will.”

She shook her head.

“I love Morgan!”

“It matters not! You will do your duty!” he bellowed. He heard Maggie approach but he shrugged her hand away, too focused on the defiant young woman in front of him.

“Winn –”

“Leave us, wife,” he snapped.

“Ah, a word, if ye please, Winn.”

He turned at the sound of John’s voice. His daughter’s betrothed stood nervously next to Maggie, and Winn immediately regretted his rash display of anger. Kyra’s cheeks blared bright pink, her blue eyes so like his own reflecting every bit of her fury. John cleared his throat, scraping a finger around the collar of his shirt as if he could not find words for what he meant to convey.

“Well, have at it,” Winn replied. He knew his voice was curt, but considering the circumstance, he thought John might forgive him.

“I beg yer leave; I must confess why I called upon ye. I ask release from thy marriage contract. I know we signed on this matter some years ago and I do not intend to change our terms, but if ye would grant me this consideration…”

Winn did not hear most of what was said after he realized John was breaking his vow. He watched Maggie go to Kyra, and the way Kyra smiled in relief. Chetan negotiated with John, and in the end their alliance survived and John was free to marry another. They would move to Basse’s Choice as planned, regardless of the lack of marriage bond.

After John gave his regrets and left, Winn looked for Kyra. She stood with Maggie, arms entwined, silent as she waited for him to act.

“Chetan,” Winn said, his voice low. “Show Morgan back to town. If he tries to return here, kill him.”

Winn ignored the gasp from his women. He turned away from them and went back into the Northern Hall.

Winn did not return to his longhouse until morning. When he looked in on Kyra, he was not shocked to find her pallet empty and her horse missing. Considering the events of the previous day, he decided to set out alone to retrieve her, unwilling to ask for help when he knew it was his anger that drove his daughter away.

If there was remorse in his heart, he did not know. Yet despite his sheer frustration at the woman his daughter had become, he would not allow her to wander into trouble.

For her flight, he blamed himself.

For keeping the truth from her so that she did not truly understand the dangers in town? That was his burden to bear as well.

Winn did not know where to find Morgan White, and he did not wish to waste time. When he arrived in town he went directly to the tavern, confident that Benjamin would know where to find the young Englishman. Although Elizabeth City had expanded since his last visit, the tavern was easy to find. All he had to do was follow the trail of soused men to the door.

The stares were easy to ignore. With a purposeful gait he made his way to the back, his eyes scanning the establishment for a glimpse of his brother. To his dismay, there was no sign of Benjamin, nor of anyone else he recognized. The only attendant was a comely serving wench, tending the place alone. Disgusted with his poor fortune, he left to resume his search.

As he entered the alley behind the tavern, he felt a presence behind him. The footsteps were hesitant, likely a slight man, and whoever followed him made no attempt to tread quietly. Without turning, he drew his knife.

“I have no quarrel with you, stranger,” Winn said slowly. “And I have no time for trouble. Be on your way and I shall be on mine.”

“Yer searching for the girl, are ye not?”

His swift movement startled the woman, for in the span of a moment he swung around and snatched her by the arm. It was the wench from the tavern. She cried out when he slammed her up against the wall, her head hitting the wood with an audible thump. Her eyes glistened but she did not cry, her mass of dark hair shielding most of her face as she glared at him.

“Unhand me!” she hissed.

“Where is she?” he demanded, ignoring her request. He squeezed her arm and shook her, thrusting his face close to hers. “Tell me!”

“I will! Why de think I followed ye, if not to help? She was asking questions inside and he saw her. Agnarr knows what she is – they’re riding to Wakehill now. Ye can catch them if ye ride hard.”

Winn loosened his grip but did not allow her to flee.

“And you? You know what she is as well?” he asked. Although he did not relish the thought of harming her, he would not let her live if she was in league with Agnarr Sturlsson. He did not understand her duplicity, but it was even more of a reason to cut her throat with little remorse.

“I – I…yes. I do know what she is,” she said softly, her face losing color as he raised his knife.

“Your loyalty leaves room for question, my lady,” he murmured. “Why should I not kill you now, since you betray your own kind?”

He saw her throat constrict as she swallowed.

“Agnarr’s not my kind, and I am loyal to my husband. It was he who asked me to watch fer ye, ye ungrateful cur!” she shot back. She lowered her tone a notch when he pressed his knife into her neck. “Benjamin said he will not let him harm her. My husband will keep his word.”

Winn released her, his breathing shallow. So his brother had taken a wife amongst his enemies? There seemed no bounds to his treachery.

“Benjamin may be your husband, but that will not save you if we meet again. Pray no harm comes to the girl. Yours will be the first heart I cut out if she is damaged.”

She slumped back against the wall as he left her. He would spare no accomplice of Agnarr’s should harm come to his daughter. Not Benjamin, nor his wife.

CHAPTER 20

Benjamin

WHEN HE NOTICED HER enter the tavern, the breath left his chest in a rush. It had been years since he saw her, a headstrong girl with her mother’s temper and her father’s dark hair. Yet there was no doubt that the young woman before him was his niece, grown into a stunning beauty who captured the attention of every man in the room. In another time and place, Benjamin might have been proud to call her kin, but at that moment, he had a dangerous problem.

Not only did she have the notice of every eye in the tavern, but that of his benefactor as well. Agnarr studied her, surveying her from head to toe, until suddenly a glimpse of recognition surged across his face.

“She reminds me of a lady I once knew,” he murmured.

“Oh?” Benjamin replied. The glass he held in his hand cracked in his fist and he dropped it discreetly into the barrel of rubbish behind the bar. He wiped the blood away with a flannel cloth.

He was helpless to warn Kyra. Unless he was prepared to kill Agnarr in front of a tavern full of Englishmen, which he was not, there was little he could do. He watched, his chest tight, as Agnarr spoke with Kyra and invited her to sit. Too far away to hear their conversation, he decided offering her a drink would not arouse suspicion.

“Who is she?” Jora asked. Benjamin glanced at his wife. Her mood was difficult to discern, be it jealousy or curiosity he did not know.

“I know not.”

Jora looked at Kyra, then back at Benjamin. “Ye lie,” she said simply. She grabbed two cups of ale and stalked toward the table where Agnarr sat with Kyra, destroying his means to hear what was said. He felt his face flush with anger, yet he could not fault her. There were too many secrets and lies between them for anything less than mistrust.

As Jora bent and placed the cup in front of Kyra, she made a purposeful movement to touch the girl’s hand. Agnarr’s eyes narrowed and he made a sharp retort to Jora, and Jora quickly finished serving them.

When she returned to his side, he could see she was shaking. As Agnarr left the table and made his way toward them Benjamin realized there was no time for deceit.

“She is a Blooded MacMhaolian. If a savage comes looking for her, ye must help him,” he whispered briskly.

“But where did she come from?” Jora demanded.

“I will tell ye when there is time. For now, ye must promise ye will do as I ask.”

“Benjamin, ye must meet my young friend,” Agnarr declared, approaching the bar with Kyra’s hand tucked under his arm. Benjamin saw Jora silently nod and he released his breath in a sigh. At least he could count on her.

Agnarr looked like a smug cat, proud of the mouse within his paws, and Kyra appeared anything but reserved. Her eyes widened in recognition when she met Benjamin’s gaze.

“Oh, I know –”

Benjamin quickly cut her off.

“Pleased to make yer acquaintance, mistress,” he said with a nod. “What brings ye here on this fine day? Surely I’ve ne’er seen ye in town before?”

His warning seemed to resonate with Kyra. Her smile faded.

“Why, no, of course not. I only traveled here in search of a friend, and then I shall be on my way.”

“I promise we shall locate yer friend, my dear. There is no person I lose sight of in this town, man or woman alike, I assure ye,” Agnarr offered. “Will ye ride with us, Benjamin? I am sure it willna take long to locate her friend.”

“A ride?” Benjamin asked, bile rising in his throat.

“Yes. What, my dear, did ye say was yer family name?” Agnarr hummed, his surly voice little more than a contented purr.

“Oh, it is –”

“Of course,” Benjamin interrupted. “A ride. Right away. Shall we?” He took a chance by offering his arm, but he was relieved when Kyra took it and Agnarr did not seem to object.

One of the King’s men engaged Agnarr as they left the tavern, and it was all the opportunity Benjamin needed. He hurried Kyra out the door.

“Doona tell him yer name, nor where ye live. Say ye are from Jamestown, or anything ye like,” he ordered. “Ye do not know me, and ye know nothing Norse. If ye were not grown, I’d tan yer hide fer coming here!” he added, frustrated with the girl for her foolishness. “Dinna I tell ye never to return here? Let me guess, yer searching for Morgan White? I’ll kill him myself if this ends badly!”

“Why must all ye men wish to kill each other? First my father, now ye! I’m going to marry Morgan, and all of ye can stop yer yammering!” she hissed in reply.

“If yer dead, ye’ll marry no man, will ye? Now quiet yerself and do as I say until I figure out how to get ye gone!”

Benjamin lifted Kyra onto her mount as Agnarr joined them with a handful of his men trailing behind.

Dusk settled over the horizon as they set off toward Wakehill. Agnarr continued to make casual conversation with Kyra, but Benjamin was reassured to hear her divert his questions. It was not long before he was jarred from his thoughts by the sound of a rider approaching.

He heard the men whisper as Winn met their party.

“A savage,” they said.

Winn did not meet his gaze, his attention focused only on Kyra. When he seemed satisfied that she was well, he addressed Agnarr. Although they had never met, it was clear who was in charge, and Winn was not the sort of man to waste time with anyone else.

“I thank you for your kind escort, but I shall ride with my daughter now,” Winn said, his voice unwavering. It was impolite not to introduce oneself, and Benjamin could nearly see the questions spinning in Agnarr’s mind.

The Norseman’s eyes narrowed, his lips pursed as he considered the savage making demands at his side. Winn leveled his gaze in return, refusing to give Agnarr notice he might be swayed.

“May I ask yer name, friend, before I release the lady? Surely ye understand I must consider…her safety,” Agnarr replied.

“Winkeohkwet, of the Paspahegh people.”

Benjamin hid his grin. Yes, Winn was a clever one. It was a name without ties, one Sturlsson could not track. If he looked for those that remained of the Paspahegh people, he would surely be disappointed.

“He is my father, sir, and my only kin. I thank ye as well for yer kindness. ‘Tis my luck to have met ye today,” Kyra interjected. She moved her horse to her father’s side.

“My pleasure, mistress,” Agnarr murmured. “How fortunate yer kin has recovered ye. I shall pray we meet again. Forever your servant.”

Winn did not wait as Agnarr gave a tight bow to Kyra. Instead, he urged his mount into a gallop and Kyra followed behind. Benjamin finally let go of his tension, assured that his niece would be safe.

With a flick of his wrist to one of his men, Agnarr pointed at the departing riders.

“Follow them,” he said.

As Agnarr continued on his way to Wakehill, Benjamin left him with the claim of returning to the tavern. He immediately doubled back, and although it was dark and he was unskilled at tracking, it was not too difficult to find the way.

He needed to find the scout. If the man found the village, all would be lost.

Moonlight lit the sky, shimmering down upon the sandy path. Shadows plummeted around him as he rode, taunting him with memories of what once had been, and the promises he had made long ago.

He saw Marcus as he lay dying, demanding an oath from his sons. Despite the years, the sound of his voice was clear, ringing through Benjamin as if his father still stood before him.

The memory was fresh as he came upon his brother in the woods. Kyra, still astride her horse, was waiting by the edge of the tree line that opened to the meadow, silently watching her father. She was an eerie outline in the light of the moon, her dark hair streaming back off her face with the cool night breeze. In the middle of the path before her Winn crouched down, pulling his knife from the body of the tracker sent to find them.

As Benjamin stopped, Winn wiped his blade off on the dead man’s jacket. The hilt of the knife flashed in the glare of the moon, and Benjamin could clearly see the rune engraved on the end.

It was the knife their father used to seal their bond. Brother to brother, blood to blood. They made a promise, and as Winn stood up and stared back at him, Benjamin knew it was only the beginning. They exchanged no words before Winn left.

He watched them ride away, safe for another day.

CHAPTER 21

Maggie

THEY GATHERED THE SICK into the Northern Hall. When the fever affected only a few, they cared for them in their homes, but when the number of those sick became greater than those who were healthy, the only way to care for them was by having them all in one place.

Maggie did not know what ailed them. At first she suspected it was a simple flu, with the fever and body aches that accompanied a virus. Yet soon she realized it was a more serious illness. It spread rapidly, claiming the life of an elderly woman as the first victim. Several children deteriorated, and she feared there was nothing they could do to stop it. They received word the Nansemond people suffered as well, pointing to some contagion likely spread during the gathering.

“How does he fare?” Winn asked. She wiped the sweat from Dagr’s brow. Her son smiled in thanks but did not open his eyes.

“The same,” she said quietly. “Have you seen Kyra?”

Winn shook his head and his jaw tightened. She sighed. Kyra and Winn had not spoken since they returned from town. Kyra avoided her father at every turn, taking her meals alone in the longhouse and settling down to sleep before Winn finished his duties with the men. Winn did not seem eager to fix the situation, making no effort to mend things with his daughter as the days wore on. With so many sick in the village, Maggie knew it was not a priority, but she could not help but wish her husband and daughter would resolve things.

“I sent a rider to Basse’s Choice. We cannot go until all of our people are well again.”

“I know. We’d just make more people sick,” she murmured. She placed a hand on Winn’s lower back and was surprised to feel him tense. When Morgan entered the Northern Hall, she understood why. Morgan searched the hall, obviously looking for someone, and Maggie bit her lip when his gaze settled on Winn. With the tension still fresh between them, she hoped Morgan had more sense than to confront Winn.

“Come quick, it’s Kyra. I canna rouse her,” Morgan stammered.

She lay quiet on her pallet when they arrived, her skin dappled with sweat and colored a sickly shade of grey. Her breathing was shallow, her pulse rapid. Maggie clutched her daughter’s hand, as helpless to do anything as she had been long ago when Kyra was stung by a bee. All of her future knowledge meant nothing, all of her magic blood meant nothing. Those she loved were suffering, and there was not a blessed thing she could do to stop it.

Winn sat down beside her. He brushed the damp hair from Kyra’s face and kissed her softly on her forehead. The regret was etched into his eyes, his anguish reflected back at her.

“What is this? What can we do?” he said, his voice hoarse.

“I think it’s an infection. I don’t know for sure,” she replied.

She stood up abruptly as the solution occurred to her. No, she could not go back to change the past, but was there any reason she could not go to the future to save them all?

At home on the farm in the future she came from, she had a cabinet of medicine. It was full of bulk bottles, with several different types of antibiotics one might use for sick animals. As far as she knew, the medicine would work the same for people. Bactrim was Bactrim, wasn’t it?

“Winn,” she said. “I have an idea.”

Maggie intended to go, but Winn would not allow it. As she watched Erich paint the runes on Winn’s arms, Gwen reminded her she could not go to a time she once lived. It was impossible for Maggie to use the Bloodstone; it must be Winn. Reality did not ease her mind, nor did it sway her husband’s resolve. Presented with a way to save his children, Winn could not turn away.

Erich explained to Winn how to return, and how the order of the runes on his skin would take him to the place he meant to go. The only belonging she still possessed from the future was her wristwatch, and she gladly surrendered it to her husband to guide his way.

“But how can we be sure he’ll return to us?” Maggie asked her uncle. Erich’s face clouded at the question.

“The runes will help point the way, and yer bracelet will steer him there. But to return here, to this time, he needs one of these,” he said, taking one of the figurines from the mantle. It was a turtle, with a rune engraved on the shell.

“Can’t we give him this one to take?”

“No. It will keep him tied here, or confuse the magic. He must find one in the future. It is the only way.”

“What if it’s not there waiting for him?” she demanded.

“I buried a few in a place only Marcus knows. Marcus must have looked fer them, there’s no o’er way he could have ‘em in yer future time. If he gave ye the raven, and gave Benjamin the eagle, then I suspect he must have looked for the others I buried as well.”

It made her head ache to think of it. She knew in the future she had her raven, and she suspected Marcus had other figurines as well, yet she could not be sure. If Winn did not have a figurine to return, he might not come back to them – or worse yet, he might go somewhere else.

Yet he made his decision and there was nothing Maggie could say to sway him. With the strength of his purpose bending her into submission, she tended the task of preparing him for the future. She thought it was best that he make an attempt to blend in, and it was only with Erich’s persuasion that Winn allowed her to shear his hair. If Winn should find himself lost in the future or worse yet, go too far ahead, she feared he might run into trouble if he appeared too out of place.

She did not expect the simple preparations to bother her. Yet standing over her husband with his fresh shorn hair in her fist was the strike that sent reality crashing home.

Although she bit down on her lip, he still heard her sigh. He turned his chin slightly as he placed his hand over hers where she braced it on his shoulder.

“Do you know,” he said softly, “that our history was written even before you were born?”

She swallowed back the rush of despair that gripped her as she shook her head. Not trusting herself to speak, she clenched her fingers into the thick of his shoulder.

“Before you took your first breath, I had already loved you for all my life.” He turned on the stool to face her, his hands slipping around her waist as he gazed up at her.

If she touched him now, she feared she would lose her last grip on reality, but at the same time she could not stop from reaching for him. She placed her palm flat over his heart, over the puckered scar where he had once been shot. The wound was shallow and long healed, the skin smooth yet tough.

“Stay here. Please. Don’t go,” she whispered. He sighed with a shake of his head. She felt him shudder as he wrapped his arms tighter around her. Her words were a simple request, yet they both knew beneath simmered so much more.

“You must listen to me,” he said quietly. Every muscle in her body tensed. She knew what he was about to say and she did not want to acknowledge it. If they spoke of it, then it meant it could happen. She could not make that recognition; she felt like she was giving up if she did.

“Please, Winn. I’ll be waiting for you. That’s all we need to say.”

“No. You will listen!” he said, his voice rising an octave and his blue eyes gleaming. She swallowed, and he closed his eyes. “I ask you to listen.”

“All right,” she whispered.

“Erich will protect you and the children. Chetan will watch over you as well. You will move into town and join with the Nansemond and English at Basse’s Choice.”

“But Winn–”

“It is the only way to keep you all safe. I cannot take on this task without knowing you, and our children are safe. Promise me you will abide. Give me your word.”

“You must come back to me,” she whispered.

“Time is nothing to us,” he said, kissing her tear-stained cheeks. “For all that I am, I am nothing but yours. Every moment of every day. In this life and all others. I will not let you walk alone, ntehem. I will find you again.”

She took his hand and placed it over her heart. As their breathing moved in unison, he laid his cheek flat against her, his arms surrounding her in an unbreakable hold. When he clutched her close, she bit back her denial, knowing it was time to let him go.

Maggie helped him dress, knowing it might be the last time she ever completed that task. He handed her his knife and her hand shook as she slit his palm, but the blood flowed quick in response.

With his eyes fastened on hers, he closed his hand around his Bloodstone and faded into nothingness.

CHAPTER 22

Winn

He closed his eyes for a moment to steady himself before he entered the house. With the knowledge that Maggie would soon be taken by the Bloodstone, he knew he had precious little time to speak to Marcus. If Winn did not get what he needed before that happened, he doubted Marcus would be willing to listen to anything he had to say.

His father sat at a small table, his head bent down over a book. He seemed to be scribbling in it with some sort of quill, one without a feather or ink. A heaviness surged through him, squeezing his chest as he watched his father.

As Winn pushed open the door, Marcus did not glance up.

“Change yer mind? Good. We can worry over the barn another day,” Marcus said.

Winn cleared his throat.

“Marcus,” Winn said, not entirely sure how to start the conversation. Marcus lifted his eyes and dropped his pen. He surveyed Winn, much as Maggie had done. Winn could see some sort of denial, and then recognition change his features, and Marcus stood slowly up from his chair.

Winn had never seen him without a full beard. His father seemed younger, and if Winn was correct on the date, Marcus was a few years younger than they day they met. He wore a snug black shirt with short, tight sleeves, similar to what Maggie wore, and a pair of blue trousers that looked terribly uncomfortable. Marcus backed up against the cabinet before he spoke.

“Who are ye?” Marcus asked, his voice betraying no hint of welcome.

“Sent by Erich,” Winn replied evenly.

“Oh, aye? I know no Erich. Perhaps ye are mistaken, lad. I think ye found the wrong house.”

Winn saw Marcus move his arm, but he could not see what his father was doing. Winn suspected Marcus was grabbing a weapon. Winn knew he had to diffuse the situation before it escalated into a brawl.

Without hesitation, Winn dropped to one knee in front of Marcus, holding both his hands out in front of him. He thrust his palms upward and bowed his head to his father, knowing his father could see the fresh Bloodstone scar branded into his hand.

“Chief Dagr, your First Man Erich sent me here. I give you my word, as your servant, that I bear you no ill-will. I have come for your help in a grave matter.”

“Why should I believe ye, Time Walker? I know ye not. What tribe do ye hail from?” Marcus growled. Winn kept his head bowed, praying that Marcus would not lop it off before he could explain.

“From your own tribe. The Clan of the Chieftain Protector of the blooded MacMhaolian.”

Marcus grabbed Winn by his neck and jerked him to his feet. Winn winced when his father threw him up against the cabinet and thrust a knife to his throat.

“Now I know ye lie, as all my kin are long dead! And ye, an Indian? Yet a Time Walker? What game do ye play, and what do ye know of my Clan?”

“I know if you kill me, Maggie’s daughter will die,” Winn ground out through his narrowed airway.

Marcus loosened his grip, only slightly, but enough for Winn to speak without his throat being compressed. His father’s suspicious gaze wavered and his slate-colored eyes widened.

“Speak,” Marcus ordered.

“Maggie’s daughter is sick. She needs medicine, Maggie says it is called antibiotic. She says it is the only way to cure her fever. If you don’t believe me, take me to your storage closet, I will prove it to you. She told me you keep it there.”

Marcus remained silent, but lowered the knife and stepped back. He pointed to a door next to a series of waist-high cabinets. Winn walked slowly past him, keeping eye contact lest his father try to kill him.

Winn opened the door and struggled to recall Maggie’s description of the jars. She called them bottles but explained they looked like white jars, and that there would be six of them stacked next to each other on the third shelf from the top. He scanned the contents of the closet, his eyes nearly blurred with the assortment of brightly colored boxes inside, and when he spotted the white bottles he let out a sigh of relief.

“Here,” Winn said, picking up one white bottle. “She said you had these for the horses, but that they would work for people. Are these the ones for fever?”

His father’s face had paled considerably. Marcus dropped the knife onto the table and put a hand on the edge as if to steady himself.

“Take them all. Whatever ye need, take it,” Marcus whispered. Winn dropped all of the white bottles into his satchel. He had satisfied two of the tasks he set out to do, and with that knowledge the panic ebbed slowly away. His last task was to return safely to his family, and for that he needed one more thing from his father.

“I need something to return. Erich said you had something of his that you would give me,” Winn said quietly, keeping his eyes averted. It was too difficult to look at his father, standing before him. Although Marcus was confused and worried, he was still blessedly strong and alive. Winn ached with the memory of the short time they had to know each other, wishing with the longing of a youthful heart that he had known his father as Maggie had.

“Ye say yer from my Clan, that I am yer Chief. Then I must have returned to the past. What is it that will make me risk taking Maggie back there? I can think of nothing that would make me risk her life that way,” Marcus asked.

Winn was aware that his actions in this time would not change the past he meant to return to, but the loop of time travel magic was an uncertain thing. He did not know if it was wise to share many details of the truth with Marcus, or what impact it might have to do so.

“You did not bring her back. It was an accident, and you returned for her,” Winn said.

“We must be friends, then, if I sent ye on such a journey.”

“You did not send me. I made the decision, and Maggie and Erich aided me.”

Marcus crossed his arms over his chest, his brown furrowed sharply downward.

“But ye said…oh, aye. I see. So I will die in the past, as I always thought I would,” Marcus murmured. “Tell me one more thing, then I’ll ask ye no more. Is Maggie happy…and safe?”

Winn nodded. “I would give my life for her. And for our children.”

Marcus startled at that, his eyes widening as his mouth fell open. Winn thought he had said too much, and he regretted to cause his father any distress. Perhaps the knowledge would help his father, in the future time he was in, somehow.

“She is my wife, and our children are sick. Many of our people are dying,” Winn said.

Marcus took in that information, his mouth closing in a tight line. He ran his hand through his hair as Winn had often seen him do, and then leaned over onto the table with both hands sprawled out. Winn was shocked to watch him sit down hard in a chair with a long sigh.

“Then by my blood vow, I should stop her from leaving. When does it happen, and how can I stop it?” Marcus asked, running his hands over his tired face.

Winn froze. If Maggie did not return, she would never belong to him. They would never have their children and never share a life together. So many things would be changed. Opechancanough would be dead from poison. Winn would have remained in the Paspahegh village, never knowing what he missed. And Winn would have never met his father. Yes, there were things any man looks back upon with a wish for another outcome, yet despite the ache in his heart for those he had lost, still, Winn knew the power of time travel was not meant to change the story history had already written.

No, Marcus could not change what was done. Winn did not know how this future would affect anything, but he felt strongly it was not up to him to alter it. As he stood before his father, Winn’s head ached with the implications of his actions, and he knew with every ounce of his being that this was the reason the blooded MacMhaolian must be protected. It was too dangerous a magic for any man to wield.

“No,” Winn choked. “You must change nothing. You, of all men, should know that. I made you a vow that I would protect her, that I would protect all the Blooded Ones with my last breath. She will return to my time, and I will serve her with my life. You will follow her. It is what is meant to be.”

“Who are you?” Marcus whispered. Winn stared into his father’s face.

“I am Chief Winn Neilsson, Chieftain Protector of the blooded MacMhaolian. Husband to Maggie and father to our children. Brother to Benjamin,” Winn replied. “And first born son to Pale Feather of the Paspahegh people, our Great Chief Dagr.”

Marcus turned grey as Winn spoke, and although his father braced his hands on the table, Winn could see him shaking.

“I made a blood vow to you, and now I honor that pledge. We swore an oath to protect this magic so that it would not be used by selfish men. Help me return to my time now. Erich told me to ask you–he said you would give me a token so that I may return,” Winn said. He tried to keep his voice from wavering. It was difficult to see his father so distressed, especially since there had been such little time they spent together.

“All right. Wait here,” Marcus said, his voice strained. He left the room but returned quickly, his fist closed around something small and a book tucked under his arm. Winn wondered what object Erich had in mind, and when Marcus held it out to him he nearly gasped.

The crafted grey metal was worn smooth in places, but Winn could easily see the detail of the bear figurine in his father’s hand. It stood upright, arms extended, as if it were the same bear he had fought for Maggie so long ago.

“I have few things left to tie me to them. Take it. And this, as well,” Marcus said, holding out a dagger. It was the Chieftain’s dagger with the Bloodstone mark on the hilt. Marcus had used it on his deathbed to draw blood from his two sons and seal their vows. It was the same dagger Winn now had strapped to his waist.

Winn drew his own blade, and both men looked down upon them.

“No, father. Keep your knife. You will have use for it yet,” Winn answered.

Marcus did not seem startled at that confession, merely setting his knife down flat on the table. He then turned and lifted something from the surface of the tall cabinet, holding it out to Winn. It was a tiny painting, yet, it was not a painting. Maggie was in the middle of the portrait, flanked on one side by a much younger Marcus, and on the other, a man Winn did not recognize. He clutched the image in his hand and it flexed, then bounced back into place.

“It’s in a plastic sleeve. Keeps it protected,” Marcus said.

The second man in the miniature had bright green eyes, like Maggie, and his face was round with a pleasant grin. Between his brows were two furrows that were from age rather than laughter, and creasing his chin was a deep dimple splitting it in two. With that consideration, Winn suspected the identity of the second man.

“Erich looks much like old Malcolm,” Winn murmured.

“Aye,” Marcus said softly. “He was a good man. Maggie misses him something fierce. Take it, put it in yer sack. This book, as well. But hold the bear in yer hand when ye go, it will help point ye back. It helps, I think, to send ye where ye belong. My mother once said so, but I don’t know for sure.”

“Thank you,” Winn said.

They clasped forearms for a long moment. Winn did not want to let him go, but thoughts of his duty reminded him of his task.

Winn let him go, and left the house. As he stepped into the yard and looked toward the barn he could see Maggie holding something heavy in the bottom half of her cloak, which she had pulled up like a makeshift sack. He felt that pulling sensation his chest, that ache to return to his family, and with a smile he drew his knife. Bright red blood welled up immediately when he sliced his palm, but before he grasped his Bloodstone, he turned to Marcus.

“When we meet again, tell me time is short. Tell me there is no time to waste in anger over old wounds. Tell me that until I listen to you, father.”

CHAPTER 23

Maggie

DAGR RECOVERED, as most of the stronger young men seemed to do. Some, however, still lingered between light and dark, wavering in the decision to live or die. Maggie thanked all the Gods she knew for the blessing of her son’s health, yet at the same time she wanted to curse them for Kyra’s decline. As the days went by and she watched her daughter succumb, the ache in her heart was replaced by despair.

She promised Winn she would go on. She would not fail him.

She needed to think of it in a sensible manner, as Winn might do. It was one of the things she admired in him, his way of deciding on a course of action and then his determination to see it through. In previous times she lost her composure when faced with adversity, and she was the first one to admit it. Her future life had not prepared her for the challenges she faced in the seventeenth century, but as time wore on, she realized she could change, too.

The fact remained that Winn had not returned.

He might never return.

Yet she needed to help Kyra, so it was with that pledge she granted Finola leave to perform the ancient ritual.

“Bring her into the woods,” Finola demanded.

Morgan carried Kyra, cradling her limp body against his chest. He followed the old woman, and Maggie could see he still did not trust their Norse magic. Although Morgan knew what Kyra was and why she was special to them all, he told her he agreed to the ceremony for one reason, and that was because he loved her daughter, nothing more.

It was enough, and Maggie was grateful for his help. Finola insisted only those closest to Kyra could attend her during the ritual. When she saw the long sickle-shaped knife Finola brandished, Maggie thought she would agree to anything the old woman asked.

A waxing crescent moon graced the sky above, casting a mystic glow upon the grove of trees. Covered in a white robe that dragged behind her on the ground, Finola appeared somehow younger, her face softer in the glow of moonlight. The old magic woman pointed above to the boughs of a great oak, where the tendrils of a mistletoe twined through the tree. She handed Malcolm the sickle, which he fastened to his belt. Malcolm shed his grey cloak, and after he placed it gently on his sister, he began his climb up the tree.

“Careful,” she whispered, watching him climb. He was strong for a youth of seven, agile enough to scale the golden oak yet still skilled enough to grab the mistletoe with one hand. Maggie gasped when he wrapped his legs around a branch and used them to steady himself.

As Malcolm cut the mistletoe away, he let it fall from his hands. It caught the breeze as it descended, gently drifting down until Finola could catch it with her white cloak.

“Will she wake after this?” Morgan asked.

“Yes,” she replied, at loss to believe in any other certainty.

Maggie placed a hand on her hip as she took a moment to gather her thoughts. Morgan leaned over and ran his hands through his thick blond hair, watching Kyra’s shallow breaths. The strain was clear on his angled jaw and creased brow. Seeing the way his eyes glazed hollow at Kyra, Maggie was struck by the change in him. He had always been a quiet, pleasant young man. Even as a boy he had been polite and respectful, never one to show too much or too little emotion. He was merely level-headed and true, even the day he rode into the Norse village as a young boy and confronted Marcus. Morgan had saved Winn’s life with his errand; it was something Maggie would never forget.

“She’ll get better. She will,” Maggie said softly. Morgan raised his eyes, and his throat contracted as he swallowed.

“She will. She must,” he replied.

Maggie reached for his hand. Unabashed pain was clear in his face as he gripped her hand. One might think it was a weak gesture for a man to make. She thought it only a measure of his love for her daughter, and she was glad for it. Morgan was steady and thoughtful. He was brave when needed, but otherwise he tempered his actions with quiet strength and resolve. Perhaps he was exactly what Kyra needed.

His face shadowed in grief, he looked warily at Finola as she approached. With her clouded eyes suddenly clear, Finola smiled, a rare moment of normalcy from a woman they feared was not sane.

“Of course,” Finola replied. She pressed a vine of mistletoe into Maggie’s hand and whispered in her ear. “Make a tea with this and have ‘er drink. In the morning she will wake, I promise ye.”

As the mist settled among the trees, they brought Kyra back to her bed. Maggie had a feeling there was some task left unfinished, as if they had missed something in their quest to tamper with ancient magic. When a figure appeared before her through the fog it became clear, and she flew into Winn’s waiting arms.

Was it the ritual that would help Kyra, or the magic of future medicine? Neither Maggie nor Winn was willing to choose. Maggie ground up the antibiotics and placed them in the mistletoe tea, which Winn helped their daughter to drink.

Finola spoke true. When the morning sun split the sky, Kyra finally opened her eyes. Yet Finola’s eyes closed forever.

CHAPTER 24

Makedewa

HE WATCHED FROM above as they buried the old woman. He did not like that they gave her a Christian burial, or that they planted her body near that of his wife.

Rebecca should be free to soar, without the ghost of a Norse witch woman haunting her resting place.

Makedewa drew back on his bow. In his sight was a head full of red hair, a banner streaming down her back as she bowed her head in mourning. When he moved slightly, the dark head of the Chief came into his range, one he could easily pick off by letting go of his arrow.

Why had Winn cut off his hair? No warrior would ever do such a thing.

With a shake of his head, he stood up. Winn was no warrior.

He surveyed them for a moment longer, taking in the group of Norsemen he once called kin.

No more. Let them rot.

If they were not Powhatan, then they were nothing. Let them meet the same fate as the English.