Jessie McCrea fleas to the colonial frontier for a new life free from servitude. When she uncovers a tomahawk buried on her property, she never expects to find a most insufferable Mohawk warrior attached to it. Shadow represents everything she’s escaped from and she will stop at nothing to maintain her life of peace and solitude.
Haunted by his past, Shadow must keep his people from being destroyed in the upcoming war between the Colonists and the British. Jessie is everything Shadow left behind. He does not deserve her, yet he is uncontrollably attracted to her. He must make Jessie see that life with him will be anything but captivity.
A captive heart is a dangerous prospect…
“Woman, you are trespassing.”
Nearly jumping out of her skin, Jessie dropped the tomahawk. She whirled to find a half-naked Indian standing within inches of her.
She was too dumbstruck to do anything but stare. With the exception of a string of beaver claws suspended from his neck, the man wore nothing but a leather breechcloth which exposed bold, well-defined muscles. He had sleek, foxlike features, high cheekbones, and a prominent jaw. His hair, black as night, fell nearly to his waist, and his left ear was pierced with copper rings.
“You are trespassing.” His English was astonishingly good. Never taking his gaze from her, he threw down the two large bundles of beaver pelts he carried, picked up the tomahawk and inspected it. “Who are you?”
Jessie froze, her gaze fixed on the huge knife at his belt.
This man was as wild looking as if he had come from the fiery gates of hell. She had heard too many horror tales. Of innocent babies getting their heads bashed against tree trunks. Of men burned alive or forced to run gauntlets of two or three hundred warriors. And she didn’t even want to think about what they did to women.
She stared at the musket he had thrown down with his pelts. It was not a heavy barreled gun but a long, narrow fowling piece. She wondered if it still worked. Any more rusted, it would be considered nothing more than blacksmith scrap.
“Who are you, trespasser?” His voice rose gruffly, as if he were trying to frighten her.
“Jessica—uh, Jess,” she stammered still eyeing the musket. She had heard it was better to put a gun to your head than to be taken as an Indian’s prisoner. Well, she had not escaped six years of hell to commit suicide. If anyone was coming out of this alive, it would be her.
She held her chin up, refusing to let him see how scared she was. “My name is Jessie McCrea, and I am not a trespasser.”
His eyes, like two flecks of night, stared at her with intense curiosity. “I am called Shadow. Shadow of the Wolf Clan, of the People of the Flint, of the Hodenosaunee, Six Nations. I say you are a trespasser.”
“The New World belongs to no one yet.”
“My people were her long before you, Jessie McCrea.” He spoke her name slowly, stressing each syllable with a strange pronunciation.
“Ganeagaono. You call us Mohawk.”
Jessie swallowed. Good Lord, he was Mohawk.