Lindsay McKenna - Brave Heart

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

They’ve left me to die…. Serena barely lifted her head from the coarse bulrushes that crowded the banks of the shallow river. It hurt to breathe, but she took in a deep, quivering breath, pushing herself upward on unsteady arms. Dawn was peeling back the inky coverlet of the September night. A shiver wound up her spine. It was a night she’d never forget. Blackjack Kingston’s narrow, mustached face leered through the fog of her pain.

Shaking her head as if to banish thought of the rich gold miner, Serena forced herself to think beyond the open wounds on her breasts. Green eyes narrowed with agony, she stared groggily at the peaceful river that flowed through the Black Hills of South Dakota. Steam rose in wavering fingers off the surface, creating fog across the river and surrounding marsh. Her home, Wexford, Ireland, was so far away. She was halfway around the world, abused by a depraved man and then thrown away to die.

“No,” she muttered, gritting her teeth. She looked down at her thin blue calico dress. The bodice was stained with blood and seepage from the wounds Kingston had inflicted upon her, and the material stuck to her flesh. His last words haunted her: “I’ll make damn sure no man wants to lay a hand on you again, you redheaded witch.”

Lifting her fingers to her bodice, Serena closed her eyes, her emotional pain overwhelming her physical pain. It was impossible to erase the memory of Kingston stalking across the polished wooden floor from the fireplace with the red-hot poker in his hand. A sob escaped from her constricted throat. There was no way to halt the forthcoming terror as she replayed the scene in her mind. Because she refused to submit to the miner’s demands, he’d repeatedly raped her, taking her virginity, and with it her dignity.

Serena hung her head, gently placing her fingers against her aching right breast. She came from a poor family of Catholic farmers in Ireland. Perhaps her flaming red hair, which now hung matted and unkempt, was a banner heralding her unbreakable spirit, and Kingston had sought to break her because of it. Her spirit was all she had left, Serena thought, dazed by the sudden turn of events. Last night she had tried to escape, not eating the drugged food. The fight to elude Blackjack had turned into a violent confrontation. She had almost made it past the door to freedom, but he had wrapped his hand into her waist-length red hair and yanked her off her feet.

Serena reached out, sliding her fingers into the clear, quiet water. Serena longed to wash away the terror she tasted in her bloodied mouth. Slowly she crawled into a kneeling position, the dress hampering her efforts. The water was so clear and inviting in comparison to how she felt inwardly. Dirty. Filthy.

Scooping up a handful of water, Serena allowed the cooling liquid to sluice across her face. Blackjack had always talked of how pretty she was: the tilt of her forest-green eyes, her generous lips and her thick, red hair. Instead of using the hot poker to scar her face, he’d scarred her breasts.

She knelt on the bank, hands in her lap, watching the red ribbon across the horizon. Around her, the world was awakening, birds heralding the arrival of the dawn with their melodic chorus. I’m alive. I can make it. Somehow, I can make it. The water was clearing her senses. Serena leaned down, scooping one handful after another onto her mouth drinking deeply of the life-giving water. After ripping a piece of the calico material from the hem of the dress, she dipped it into the water. She tried to scrub away from her face, neck and hands the odor of Blackjack and of the last terrible months of imprisonment.

As she sat there, hidden among the tall reeds and rushes, Serena watched the red dawn turn gold, and then a fragile pink color. The world around her was pristine, untouched and heart-stoppingly beautiful—all the things she would never be again. Kingston had robbed her of her virginity, the only thing she had left to give the man who might be her husband. Worse, he’d claimed her selfhood, leaving her stripped and humiliated. Tears squeezed into Serena’s eyes, but she froze them in place, refusing to cry, to give in to them.

Throughout the months that she’d been a prisoner of Kingston, Serena had never shown fear or cried. Blackjack had taken her bravery as his personal challenge to break her spirit, to make her cry out in pain, or at least to bring her to a state of tears. He’d accused her of being a witch, of having no heart or feelings because he hadn’t accomplished his goal. Serena hung her head, staring at the young grass shoots. Gently, she touched them with her muddied fingers. Once she’d been like them—vulnerable to the ever-changing world around her.

“Never again…” she whispered hoarsely. Men meant nothing but pain, degradation and humility. Her spirit, her ability to fight back for what she felt was rightfully hers, had been a beacon to men who disagreed with her. They tried to break or kill her. The hatred that welled up in Serena took her by surprise. It was murderous, and she had never contemplated hurting anyone in her eighteen years of life. But that was before she had tapped the rage suppressed deep within her heart.

Men. She closed her eyes, wincing. Men scared her now. Kingston didn’t have to worry about her wanting a husband. She wanted no man! Serena slowly opened her eyes, staring at the unsullied water. If God would answer her prayers and help her survive this latest twist in her life, she swore she would never marry. Better to eke out an existence alone than to bow to a man and become his slave again. Men meant nothing but pain and agony, capable only of hurting, maiming and raping a woman.

The braying of a mule jerked Serena out of the hatred in which she was wallowing. She flattened out among the bulrushes, remaining well hidden. Within minutes, six burly miners with mules loaded down with gold-mining tools moved past her on the bank above. They were looking for gold, no doubt, trying to strike and claim another mother lode. Heart beating wildly in her throat, Serena pressed her face to the cooling, abrasive texture of the reeds. Don’t let them see me…. God, please don’t let them discover me….

Just the nearness of the hulking, bearded men made her tremble with fear. They passed her, unaware of her presence. Barely breathing, Serena closed her eyes and dug her fingers into the mud. Blackjack had dumped her somewhere west of the town of Kingston. How far she was from the outpost that served as a gold-mining camp for miners such as these, she had no idea. For two months, he’d had her cuffed and chained to a bed. That one room of his large, two-story cabin had been her cage, her only existence.

If these men discovered her, they would capture and rape her—just as Blackjack had done. They had greedy faces and hard eyes. From the maid, Lucinda, a black slave from the south who would sometimes keep her company when Blackjack was out of town, Serena had heard that the miners often ruthlessly slaughtered the Sioux Indians who lived on these gold-strewn Black Hills of the Dakota Territory. In her heart, she felt sorry for the Sioux.

Serena had learned that Blackjack hated anyone who wasn’t male and white. Often, he’d whipped Lucinda for the slightest infraction of the strict rules he’d laid down. And too many times Serena had heard of Blackjack’s notorious gang of miners, who rode into Sioux villages killing men, women and children just to get a new gold claim. Children…Her stomach rolled and she swallowed hard, fighting the urge to vomit. Children, no matter what their color or religion, were helpless. In her eyes they were precious, and deserved protection. But Blackjack called the Sioux little more than animals that deserved to be trapped and slaughtered, just like foxes or wolves. They didn’t have hide like animals, but their scalps were worth upward of ten dollars apiece at his trading post, he’d boast.