Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

Kill me! No, it was worse than that—he wanted her! “Delaney,” she whispered, and dropped her face into her hands. If he was all right, would he even care enough to try to find her? I’m going crazy, she thought, choking down her tears.

“You not blubber,” Cricket said in a stern voice. “You no demon woman.”

“No, I’m not,” Chauncey said, forcing her eyes to the other woman’s face. “I’m afraid, Cricket, very afraid. I don’t belong here. You must help me. You lived with white people. You know their ways. You know I cannot remain here.”

“Father Nesbitt nice man,” Cricket said, then added dispassionately, “Even when he beat me with stick, he tell me it is to purify my spirit. Chatca kill him fast. He good man too. I no mind to share him.”

“Cricket, listen to me. I am married. I already have a man, a good man. Please, you must . . .”

She broke off suddenly, fear curdling in her stomach at the sight of Chatca standing in the narrow entrance. In the dim light of the previous night, he had looked like a fiend from a medieval book of Satan’s followers. In the daylight, he looked worse.

“Demon woman eat,” Cricket said, her voice all sweet and submissive deference.

Chatca’s black eyes never left Chauncey’s face. She stared back at him, willing some feeling, some human reaction in him. He wore only filthy buckskins and leather boots that came to his knees. His chest was bare, devoid of hair, and covered with a greasy substance that gave off a revolting odor. His hair was glistening with the grease and hung in sticky strings to his shoulders. A dirty band of leather held the hair back from his forehead. His face was hairless. Suddenly he was grinning widely at her, and she could imagine the stench from his yellowing teeth. She could not tell his age.

He turned his eyes to Cricket and said something sharp to her. Chauncey had thought Cricket had some spirit, particularly after seeing her confront the woman Tamba. But now her shoulders sagged and she bowed her head.

He is too strong for me, Chauncey thought, staring again at Chatca. He was not a large man, but his muscles were tight and sinewy, made more prominent by the shining grease covering them. He took a step toward her.

Chauncey jumped back and flung her hands out in front of her. Chatca growled something at Cricket.

“Lady,” Cricket said, “Chatca want you. He say he make you wife. He not kill you.”

“You’re his wife!”

“He take you and have three wives.”

Cricket frowned as she spoke. Not waiting for Chauncey’s response, she turned to Chatca and asked him what seemed to be a question. Chauncey blinked to see him raise his fist as he growled a long string of sounds at her.

“What is it, Cricket? What is the matter?”

Cricket turned angry eyes back to Chauncey. “Chatca want make you first wife. I tell him no.”

Chauncey closed her eyes for a brief instant. This was ridiculous, all of it! This simply couldn’t be happening! Dammit, she w

as an Englishwoman, a lady! Some lady! She opened her eyes and looked a moment at her dirty hands. Her skirt was torn and soiled.

“Cricket,” she said finally, “please tell Chatca that I am married. Tell him that he must return me to my husband, to civilization. I’m not an Indian. I don’t know your ways.”

Cricket appeared to ponder her words, then turned to Chatca. What followed was as close to a screaming match as Chauncey had ever witnessed. She cried out, rushing forward when Chatca cuffed Cricket and sent her sprawling to the ground.

“Stop it, you miserable bastard! You damned savage, don’t you dare hurt her!”

Chatca grinned. “Demon woman,” he said, the words low and pleased and guttural. But she understood, and backed away again. She looked frantically about for a weapon, anything, but there was nothing.

“No,” she shouted at him, backing away until she was pressed against the flimsy skin wall.

“Demon woman,” Chatca said again, and strode toward her.

25

Chauncey let out a scream of fear and rage. Chatca’s hands gripped her upper arms, pulling her toward him.

“You damned savage!” She brought her arm up and sent her fist as hard as she could into his jaw. “How does that feel, you miserable bastard?”

He was laughing. Laughing! She flung herself at him, raking her dirty fingernails into his neck and shoulders when he threw his head back out of her reach. Suddenly he jerked her tight against him, trapping her arms between them. He bent down and began to nuzzle her neck. The smell of him and his awful breath made her gag. She tried to kick him, jerking and twisting back to give herself leverage.

It was no use.