Honor Bound

  By Nancy Henderson

  Copyright  2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, or by any information storage retrieval without the written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, please visit:

  NancyHendersonWrites.com

  Honor Bound

  By

  Nancy Henderson

  To the weak, may you find strength.

  To the frightened, may you find courage.

  To the grieving, may you find peace.

  Chapter One

  Fort Niagara, 1755

  Ivy Sinclair smelled the soldier approaching before she saw him; a mixture of grime and days, perhaps weeks, of uncleanliness, making her stomach churn.

  The only light came from the oil lamp he carried. She batted her eyes at him as he sat the lamp down on a large tree stump on the middle of the room. The stump had a pair of iron shackles nailed to the top of it.

  He came back to her, flashed her a crooked grin, signaling his willingness. The solider could not be more than eighteen if that. A thin, patchy stubble of a beard dotted his chin.

  She pushed her bosom up against the cold iron bars of the cell she was in, pulled her bodice down just enough to expose the tops of her breasts.

  “I like you,” she murmured, doubting the soldier could even understand English. “Come inside if you want me.”

  The boy chuckled, grunted something in French, and fumbled with the ring of the skeleton keys that he carried. Ivy held little doubt that he would be just as clumsy making love, not that she was going to go that far. The squawk of the cell door opening was deafening. He stepped inside, roughly grabbed her about the waist, the entire length of him pressing against her.

  Sensing movement, she glanced toward the cell across from her and the prisoner who waited inside. She could not see him, but with the oil lamp she could faintly make out his figure standing by his cell door.

  Waiting.

  She reached between the bars and rested her hands on the soldier’s shoulders. His mouth came down hard on hers, wet, his breath rancid. His tongue pushed into her mouth and she tasted the rot of his teeth.

  Using all her strength, she shoved him. He stumbled back against the opposite jail cell. The walkway between the rows of cells was only two feet if that, and the prisoner across from her took his opportunity.

  It was too dark to see anything but a figure overtaking the soldier, but Ivy heard the sound of the soldier choking. His guttural struggles fought for a moment, then she heard the sound of him drop and the clang of keys.

  Ivy froze. Was he dead? She hadn’t expected him to die. She heard no movements in the blackness.

  She had helped kill someone.

  The iron cell door creaked open with a slow scream, and a figure stood before her.

  The stranger. The one she had been talking to, plotting with for weeks, stood before her. He was not tall, maybe a few inches over her height. She could not make out what his face looked like in the dark.

  Without word, he turned and headed toward the stairs. He unlocked her door then he started to leave.

  “Wait!”

  He stopped and she approached him. “We have to release the others.”

  “There is no time.”

  Ivy ignored him. Picking up the keys, she began unlocking the other cells. People shouted in various languages. Some were too weak from lack of food, water, possibly too sick to do anything but stare.

  “Woman!” the man shouted. “You are going to get us killed.”

  “I can’t leave them.”

  He turned and Ivy heard his footsteps ascending the stairs. He was her way out of here. He was to take someone’s gun if confrontation arose, and Ivy was to follow him to freedom. All she had to do was follow.

  Dropping the keys, she hurried upstairs. Light poured in from the first floor above. Burning torches hung against the walls, creating eerie shadows everywhere. She found the man at the top of the stairs.

  This was the first time she had seen him in the light. His back was bare, his midnight-black hair falling down the center of his back. He wore leather leggings and a breechclout.

  Ivy had been talking to this man for weeks. She had no idea he was Indian. Her heart went up in her throat. Was he just as dangerous as her jailors?

  At the top of the stairs, French soldiers streamed in from every direction. The Indian body slammed one of the men and easily took his musket.

  The prisoners behind her raced up the stairwell, shoving her forward. Ivy ran toward the Indian. He shoved her aside, nearly knocking the wind out of her. He rushed a wall of soldiers, busting through them with sheer bodily force.

  Ivy ran on instinct, following the Indian. A soldier grabbed her arm, yanking her to him. He shouted something in French. Ivy jabbed her elbow into his side, almost fell as he released her. She ran after the Indian, catching a glimpse of him turning the corner.

  More soldiers followed. The Indian caught the sword of a soldier drawing on him, jabbed it into another’s side, bashed his skull open with the barrel of the musket and kept moving.

  They passed through the entranceway. Daylight streamed in, making her momentarily blind, but she kept running. Rain poured in sheets, her boots slipping in mud as she ran. She was losing ground keeping up with the Indian.

  Something whizzed by her ear. She smelled the acidic stench of black powder. Was she shot? She felt no pain, just pure adrenaline.

  The edge of the woods came up fast. The Indian should be waiting for her. He’d promised to lead her to safety. He gave no sign of slowing, just disappeared into the brush.

  Shots rang out behind her. She crashed into the brush, thick briars cutting her face and hands. She saw movement up ahead. The Indian was still running. No doubt he was getting cut up too. Maybe the thickness would hide them from the soldiers. Or maybe they would die.

  Ivy was not ready to die.

  ~ * ~

  Standing Bear fought his way through the brush-covered forest. He should be used to covering terrain like this. Instead, he was encumbered with the incessant shouting of the woman behind him. She was slow and loud, and she was going to get them both killed.

  He had never felt so weak, yet he forced himself to keep moving. He could not remember the last time he had eaten, and his gut felt as if it were folding upon itself.

  Branches broke and cracked behind him, letting him know the white woman had finally caught up to him. Her movements were labored, not careful at all. It was by the sheer will of Hawenneyu that no soldiers followed them now.

  Bear did not slow down for her. If she could not keep up, she was meant to die. Simple as that. He would be better off traveling alone.

  But she was keeping up, that was what surprised him. To say he was impressed was an understatement. He had never seen determination like that in a woman, and he could not help but wonder how she had gotten imprisoned at Fort Niagara. He doubted anyone there would jail her for prostitution. Fort Niagara was the most demoralized, unethical fort in the colony. A few whores would surely be welcome company.

  Judging by the way she had propositioned the guard that he had killed, she was in no way innocent. It was unlikely that she had killed someone seeing how she had nearly gotten them killed trying to free the other prisoners. She did not make any sense.

  It did not matter. She did not matter. He had to get home. Not just for food and supplies. He had to tell the council that someone, one of their own people, and betrayed him and were likely a threat to the entire Gageagaono people.

  Bear and his warriors, all men loyal to Sir William Johnson, the Indian agent to the British, had planned to raid the supply line coming into Fort Niagara. Bear had been the only one to be captured. It was as if they knew who he was and that he was the one who had information. One of his friends, the brothers who Bear would have given his life for had betrayed him, and Bear intended to find out who it was and why. Bear could understand that he had enemies. Taking to the warpath as often as he had he was bound to make foes, but this was friends, perhaps family, who had set out to harm him. That was something he could not accept.

  Hours passed before he slowed. The cold, driving rain ceased to an annoying trickle then slowly died. Miraculously, he no longer heard his captors chasing them.

  Breathing heavy, he stopped beside a slow-moving stream. Patches of skunk cabbage and fiddlehead ferns poked out from the earth, promising warm summer weather soon. Bear had always liked the spring. It was a time of life and new beginnings which gave him hope. There always had to be hope for something. Even if right now he had nothing.

  Kneeling in the cool spring runoff, he drank until he had to come up for air.

  The woman knelt beside him, her movements slow and cautious. Her gaze eyed him from the corner of her eye. She pulled up her long skirts, the hem tattered and torn from hours of running through the brush. She drank as much as he.

  Her hair had fallen out of the painfully tight looking bun at the nape of her neck and now hung past her shoulders in thick, dark waves. In the light, he finally got a good look at her.

  He wondered if white men found her attractive. Bear saw nothing attractive about her. Her skin was too li ght for his taste, and her hair was brown like bear dung. Her eyes were dark and wide set which quite possibly was the most alluring thing about her. He was definitely too thin, giving her an unhealthy appearance. He liked his women with meat on their bones.

  He stood and watched her drink for a long while. Finally, she looked up, wiped her face off with the back of her hand.

  “Your hair is very long.” She stopped back as if surprised. “I never realized you were a savage.” Her eyes were wide set.

  Bear was not insulted by her words, although he knew he probably should be. He expected nothing less from a White Eye. Forwardness in a woman was not something he was used to. The Gageagaono considered it forward for a woman to look a strange man straight in the eye, let alone comment about his hair.

  Considering how she had used her body on the soldier to get them out of prison, he could not expect much. Whores were known to be forward, no doubt.

  Bear met her gaze. “Would you not have trusted me with your life had you known I was a dirty Indian?”

  “No, I—" She stared at him for a long while. Sunlight reflected off her hair, giving it reddish, auburn highlights. Her cheeks and jawline were slashed from briars. Some were still openly bleeding. She had wiped away some of the blood, but the deeper ones still bled. “I just didn’t know you were an Indian is all. I meant no offense.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Ivy Sinclair.” She squared her shoulders. “My father was John Sinclair from Albany. He was a trader. Have you heard of him?”

  Bear shook his head. He had not, but that was not unusual. There were hundreds if not thousands of traders in this area, all expecting to make it rich at Fort Niagara. The fact that she spoke of her father in past tense made him wonder if he had died recently or been killed. Was that why she had been stranded at the fort?

  Maybe she was not a whore. Bear did not know why that should even be of importance to him. However, he found it very intriguing.

  His gaze raked over her. She must look like skin over bone with her clothing off. The thought of her naked stirred something in him that had not been awakened in a long time. “We need to eat while it is still light.”

  “How can we? We have no food and no weapons to shoot anything.”

  “You know about hunting?”

  She shook her head. “Not really.”

  Bear was not surprised by her answer. If he had not lost everything when captured, he would have jerky to tide them over until they arrived at his home, but the only option was to fish for their dinner. And if he had a weapon, someone might hear the shot.

  He picked up a stick, used the sharp end of a stone and made a point as best he could. The woman watched him with curiosity. “What are you doing?”

  “Be still.”

  “I will not.” Her tone was sharp. “I asked you a question.”

  Bear turned his back to her, her gall shocking him. He tried to remember the last time he had been around a woman who was not his mother or sister and he struggled to remain patient. He certainly would not think of Many Stars.

  He sighed. “I need you to stand by the river and be quiet.”

  Her frown told him she was not pleased. He was surprised when she did as he instructed.

  Slowly, he walked downstream, his gaze desperately looking for movement along the riverbed.

  It was not long before he spied a fish. With the skill of a starving man, he speared the fish in one quick motion. The reddish-brown colored trout was barely four inches long, but it was meat. At least something was going right.

  Plucking it off his spear, he held the squirming fish between his fingers. He offered it to the white woman.

  “Raw?”

  “How else would you propose to eat it? We cannot make a fire. Someone could spot us.”

  She gave him a look of disgust. “I’m not eating raw fish.”

  “Then you will go hungry.” He took the fish back, insulted by her refusal. He used the same stone to gut it and then he ate it raw. He chewed so fast he did not even taste it, swallowed, then thanked Hawenneyu for the meal. He had been imprisoned for weeks, had only been given moldy bread and filthy water, and to taste meat again was heaven. He hoped he would regain his strength back quickly.

  The white woman was watching him with great interest. She seemed to be rolling something over in her mind.

  “You will die in a day or two if you do not eat.”

  “You’ve already eaten the fish,” she answered matter-of-factly. “There are no more.”

  Without word, he went back to fishing, speared another fish and walked it back to her. He was surprised when she took the squirming little fish from him. Gingerly, she picked at the meat and put it in her mouth.

  She chewed with exaggerated motions. “I suppose it’s not so bad.”

  “I am relieved it meets your approval.” He was purposely sarcastic. He could not stand white women, not that he had ever come in contact with many. He had seen them from afar in cities like Albany and Schenectady, and he had never approved of the way the white man bowed their every whim.

  “Who are you?” She continued looking at him. Hair a mess, face bleeding and red, she stared directly at him, as if refusing to be intimidated.

  “Standing Bear of the Gageagaono, Turtle Clan.” He held up his chin, not expecting her to understand the pride which came from his heritage.

  Her eyes widened. “You’re Mohawk.”

  It was his turn to be impressed. How could she possibly know that?

  “My father often traded with the People of the Flint.”

  Standing Bear nodded, making a mental note to ask about her father upon returning home to his village. He wondered if her father was a good man or a swindler to his people. Most likely a swindler. There were twice as many thieves than good men in the white world unfortunately.

  “Will you go home to your mother now that your father is gone?”

  “My mother is gone as well.” She cleared her throat. “My father has land near Albany. I intend to claim it as my own and live there.”

  Bear nearly laughed. A woman owning land was unheard of.

  “What is so funny?”

  “Had land, you mean.”

  She looked puzzled but said nothing.

  “You said your father is dead. How do you know someone has not already taken the land and claimed it as their own?”

  She stared. Obviously, she had not thought of this possibility. She set her chin high. “I guess I will tell them that it’s my land, and they must evacuate immediately.”

  Bear could not hold back his laughter. Her plan was the most foolish, ridiculous thing he had ever heard. Gageagaono women did not come up with such ridiculous ideas of self-service and independence.

  “It is not your concern what or how I intend to claim my father’s land. I’m certainly not going to take advice from the likes of you.”

  Bear could not deny that her words stung. He knew he had hurt her first, had sensed it in her tone. He almost felt bad. Almost. She was no different than any other White Eye who saw him as less than a human being. For some strange reason, however, he was starting to enjoy the banter that was developing between them.

  He knelt beside her. “So, what is the plan?”

  She looked dumbfounded.

  “We are miles from the French. You have succeeded in getting out of Fort Niagara. Where will you head to now?”

  “I told you. Albany.”

  “That is a long way off. Which way will you head?”

  She looked around then pointed. “This way.”

  “That way is north.” Bear folded his arms across his chest. “Albany is not north.”

  Frustration furrowed her brow. For a moment, she looked as if she would cry. Then with a deep sigh, she squared her shoulders.

  “I helped get you out of the fort.” Her gaze was full of challenge and accusation.

  “I released myself.”

  “Not without…” Her voice trailed off.

  Acting like a common whore, he thought but kept silent. At the time, Bear had thought she knew what she was doing, but the more he interacted with her the more he felt like she was an innocent. A paid whore would not have been traveling with her father. A whore would seem to have more self-assurance as well.

 

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