Free Candace McCarthy by Fireheart Page B

again, do you hear me? You are in England now. Leave your heathen things outside your bedchamber door, and Charles will come get them.”
    Give up her Lenape things? she thought. Never!
    “I’m warning you, young lady, if you don’t do what I say you shall pay the consequences. Do you understand?” He squeezed her jaw, making his message clear. She fought not to wince and murmured in the affirmative....
    A snap of a twig in the forest jerked Joanna to the present. She glanced about the woods, fighting tears. How she’d hated Roderick Neville, but she’d been afraid to defy him. That first day was only a taste of what was to come. Whenever she displeased him, whether she didn’t make the proper impression on his friends or some other offense, he would backhand her across the face, or take a strap to the back of her legs. Joanna still had the scars where he had cut welts into the fleshy part of her thighs with a leather strap.
    This had occurred when he’d caught her wearing her Lenape tunic for the second time. She had thought he would be out for the day. She had put on the dress for she’d been so miserable and wanted to surround herself with memories of the village . . . of love. She’d spent a happy afternoon in her room with her Lenape things surrounding her, the things she had refused to give up . . . and Charles hadn’t told on her.
    When Roderick Neville had come home unexpect edly, Joanna had been in the kitchen, emerging from her bedchamber for a brief bite to eat. Roderick’s eyes had widened when he saw her, then his face had turned beet-red with rage. He had grabbed the nearest weapon—his riding crop—and Joanna had run to escape him.
    She’d tripped on the stairs, and he’d caught her. Dragging her by the hair to her room, he had hit her with the crop across the back of the legs bared beneath the Lenape tunic. She didn’t cry. She had learned early on that to cry only incited the man’s lust for punishment. She bore the pain, sobbing in private only when he collected her Lenape things afterward. He took her tunic, her moccasins, and her string of beads. The only thing he didn’t get was a medicine pouch given to her by Wild Squirrel.
    As she listened to her uncle rant and rave about exorcising her of her “heathen” ways, she vowed that he would never learn where she’d hidden her precious medicine bag. She vowed, too, that while Roderick Neville might attempt to tame the “savage” in her, she would always have her memories.
    Joanna stood in the darkened forest and realized as she began to walk that her cheeks were wet with tears. She wandered aimlessly and found herself on the path to the lake again, heading toward the water rather than the wigwam. The thought occurred to her that Cara and Harry waited anxiously for her return, but at that moment Joanna didn’t care. She was hurting. Even from his grave, Roderick Neville had the power to bring pain.
    The thought of the cool wetness of the lake appealed to her, and she continued on, anxious for a swim.
    It was late. Everyone had gone back to their sleeping pallets. The shore was deserted as she’d expected. The moon was only a sliver in the night sky, but the clear clean air afforded a lovely view of the glistening water. Joanna slipped off her gown, and stood a moment in her shift, enjoying the light breeze that came in off the lake. She closed her eyes, and allowed the air to dry her tear-damp cheeks. She willed her mind to a calmer time, a more pleasant place than England and the manor she’d left behind. She hated the house for its darkness, its memories, and for everything it stood for in her life.
    Her uncle had had such an effect on her that she’d been unable to don Lenape clothing since her return to the village. Now, she silently scoffed at herself for her silliness. Her uncle wasn’t here. He was dead, and the choice was hers alone.
    She unfastened the ties of her shift and held onto the fabric. At one time, she’d had no