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Brave Heart
Lindsay McKenna
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
Chapter One
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