Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

“Death by perversity,” she muttered, and stalked away to lie on her bedroll.

Chauncey had fallen into a light sleep, having made peace with the hard ground, when she felt a hand clamped over her mouth. She jerked upright, struggling.

“Don’t make a sound,” Delaney whispered, tightening his hold on her. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

She felt a cold lump of fear in her throat. Bears, she thought wildly. Weren’t there bears in forests? She pulled the blanket about her and stared toward the dark woods. Snakes? Could Delaney have heard a snake? Stop being a fool, she whispered behind her teeth. Snakes slither, they don’t walk and make noise.

She shot up at the sound of three rapid gunshots.

“Delaney!”

There was no answer, nothing! Only the deadening silence. Her derringer! She rushed forward on her hands and knees, grabbing for her valise. She threw her clothes about, and closed her fingers over the small pistol. A foot smashed down on her hand.

She screamed in pain and fright, and the derringer fell from her fingers. An arm closed over her throat and she was dragged back.

It was a man, and he smelled dreadful. She could hear his harsh breathing, hear him grunt in pain when her elbow lashed back into his stomach. He hissed something at her, but she couldn’t understand him. She was panting, struggling mindlessly. He jerked at her throat and she couldn’t breathe. Her screams became gurgles of sound, but she didn’t give up, even as her vision blurred. She kicked back, her boot connecting with the man’s shin.

He grunted in fury and jerked her about to face him. She saw him for only a moment before his fist smashed against her jaw. An Indian, she thought vaguely, and fell into darkness.

Her nose twitched. What was that awful smell? She moved restlessly, opened her eyes, and blinked. Her face was pressed against a man’s leg, and the filthy odor was from his buckskins. She tried to arch away from him, but a flash of pain went through her jaw, and she moaned softly.

She felt a hand press firmly against the small of her back, and her face fell again to his thigh. I’m going to vomit, she thought. She closed her eyes and swallowed.

The man was saying something to her. It was a string of low guttural sounds that had no meaning to her. She raised her chin, trying desperately to turn a bit so she could see him.

“Delaney,” she whispered, the sound of her own voice causing more waves of pain in her head. “My husband! Where is he?”

The man was talking again, turning slightly on his horse’s back, to speak to another man behind him.

Her nausea increased. She locked her teeth together. This is all a nightmare, she told herself over and over. This can’t be happening. It is a thing woven from rotten cloth. I am going to wake up now. Delaney will be here. He will be all right. Wake up, you fool! She did, with a vengeance. She reared up against the man’s hand, yelling a curse at the top of her lungs. For one instant she looked at him straight in the face.

Oh God! Even a nightmare couldn’t produce such a terrifying image. Matted black hair hung about his face. His eyes, flat black coals, were close-set, his nose nearly flat against his cheeks, and his lips were parted, showing wide-spaced yellowing teeth.

“No!” she shrieked, and scored her fingernails down his bare chest.

He struck her on the side of the head, and she slumped unconscious against his thigh.

“No, please . . . no! Make it stop. Please!”

Chauncey felt a cool wet cloth on her forehead. I am dead and in hell, she thought vaguely. I won’t open my eyes, not yet.

But she did. Kneeling above her was a young woman. Then her vision cleared and she stared at the woman silently. Her features were flat and heavy, just as the man’s had been, but her jet-black eyes held a measure of feeling, compassion perhaps. Her face was perfectly round, her thick black hair braided into two thick plaits that fell over her shoulders. She exuded the same noxious odor, and Chauncey’s stomach lurched.

“Where am I?” she whispered, swallowing convulsively.

“You be still, lady,” the woman said. “I take care of you.”

“My husband,” Chauncey said, her voice breaking. “Where is he?”

“Don’t know. Chatca no say,” the woman said, her voice as flat as her facial features.

“Who are you?”

“Father Nesbitt call me Cricket, after a famous white man. Father Nesbitt let me keep his house and teach me good English.”

A priest with a bizarre sense of humor.

“Father