A Sweet Surrender Read online

  A SWEET SURRENDER

  A Short Historical Romance

  Lena Hart

  A SWEET SURRENDER

  Copyright © 2015

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-941885-13-0

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DEAR READER

  BOOKS BY LENA HART

  A SWEET SURRENDER

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BE NOT AFRAID

  DEAR READER

  A Sweet Surrender is my debut into historical romance and I’m excited to be re-releasing it with a never-before-published prologue! This short story was initially published in the Revolutionary War anthology, FOR LOVE & LIBERTY, in reverence to America’s independence from England. But mainly, this story was written in respect to the “unalienable rights” we are all entitled to—life, liberty, and the pursuit of happily-ever-after.

  Siara and James’ story is only a sample of what’s to come from me and my forthcoming historical romances so I hope you enjoy!

  Happy reading,

  Lena ♥

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  BOOKS BY LENA HART

  Because You Love Me

  Because You Are Mine

  Because This Is Forever

  The Queen Quartette Series

  His Flower Queen

  His Bedpost Queen

  Queen of His Heart

  His Diamond Queen

  Short Stories

  B is for Bedpost

  Anthologies

  For Love & Liberty

  Love in Black & White

  The Brightest Day

  A SWEET SURRENDER

  New York, 1777…

  Siaragowaeh of the Onyota’aka tribe has a love for all things living and when a fallen British soldier becomes severely wounded, Siara secretly nurtures the officer back to health, putting her own position in her tribe at risk.

  Sergeant James Blake of His Majesty’s elite assault troops vaguely remembers the ambush that left him at the mercy of a beautiful native woman…a woman he isn’t yet certain he can trust. When a narrow escape from Siara’s village forces them on the trail together, desire soon flares even brighter between them.

  Yet in a journey driven by duty and complicated by loyalty, Siara and James must determine if they will follow their predestined paths or surrender to their hearts and chart anew…

  For all those who fought and all those who were forgotten.

  “Independence is my happiness, and I view things as they are, without regard to place or person; my country is the world, and my religion is to do good.”

  —Thomas Paine

  Prologue

  Early October, 1777

  Upstate New York

  The stench of blood and death was strong.

  Fear was stronger.

  It permeated the cool, autumn air of the ravaged battlefield and hung about as lurid as the groans of the dying men around him.

  Not his men, however. None of them were among the dead. They wouldn’t be part of his elite cavalry had they made themselves so easy a target.

  Sergeant James Blake surveyed the field of dead bodies, not as unaffected by the sight as his demeanor would suggest. But they were in the midst of war and sympathy or remorse was a dangerous companion to have in battle. Shrewd ruthlessness and cold indifference was what kept them alive. He needed to remember that and be grateful it wasn’t him or his men drawing in their last breath on the cool, damp earth.

  Yet, the sight of the nameless enemy combatants that lay slain around him didn’t ease the cold pit that had settled in his gut. The familiar uneasiness only expanded until it crawled its way up the nape of his neck.

  “Something doesn’t feel right about this attack, Sergeant.”

  James grunted and turned to his corporal. “I agree, Thomas. These men weren’t trained to fight.”

  In fact, the soldiers they had easily defeated had been like sitting ducks, used only as targets to draw the enemy out. Had there been any other way around them, James would have taken it. But they needed to continue north, needed to get to Saratoga if they were to aide General Burgoyne in his campaign to Albany.

  A foolhardy mission on Burgoyne’s part.

  In his hopes to trap the Continental Army in Albany, Burgoyne and his troops were now trapped. Yet, as bold and ill-executed as the general’s plan was, James couldn’t disobey a direct order. He would lead his men to Saratoga, but he’d be damned if he walked them right into an ambush. With his growing apprehension, that was precisely what it felt like.

  “Thomas, take the men west and wait for my command,” James instructed. “We need to clear that crossing, but I want to be sure there aren’t any surprises awaiting us.”

  It was unlikely that they had, but James couldn’t shake the feeling that they were in a vulnerable position, despite their rivals lying dead around them. No one knew of their progression north—they had only received the missive from General Clinton that morning to make their way to Saratoga.

  Thomas frowned. “We cannot afford to have you walk into a trap, Sergeant.”

  And James couldn’t afford to lose any more of his men. His fealty to the crown and his responsibility to his troops kept him fighting in this hopeless war with the Colonists. He’d already lost it all. Unlike many of his men, he had no wife, no family, to return home to. The moment he’d held his dying young brother in his arms, he’d given up the folly of ever having that life for himself.

  All he had left now was his duty as sergeant to lead his sixty grenadier soldiers to victory in each and every battle.

  “Let me ride in your place,” Thomas offered.

  James shook his head. “With my steed, I will have better luck eluding our enemies if they have indeed plotted such an attack.” Only he and several of his men rode astride, including his second-in-command. The others marched afoot. If he was heading into a trap, James could trust the speed and dexterity of his mount to lead him to safety.

  “Then let me ride with you.”

  James shook his head again. “We risk exposure if there are more of us. I will ride ahead and signal you if the path is clear.”

  “But Sergeant—”

  “It is done, Corporal,” James said forcefully. “Now wait for my command.”

  James didn’t wait for his acknowledgment. He veered his horse around and rode north, keeping off the main road. The soft glow of the crescent moon offered little light so he kept his pace slow, fixing his gaze on every shadow as his steed trudged through the dense forest.

  The stillness in the air was unsettling, but he welcomed it. Silence didn’t mean there weren’t savages or Colonists lurking about, but they could handle a small group of assailants. It was walking into a well-trained, heavily armed militia that he wanted to avoid.

  James stopped and surveyed his surroundings. If they remained on this trail, they could continue their journey through the night and shorten their trip to Saratoga by a day as was his goal.

  As he started back to where his men waited, a whisper of noise darted pass his ear. James spun his head at the sound and it took him a millisecond to recognize the arr
ow lodged in the tree behind him.

  “Bloody hell.”

  No sooner was the curse past his lips that a sharp pain pierced through his thigh and into his horse’s side. The animal screeched and reared up. James tightened his hold on his reins as the horse shot forward into a full gallop. He gritted his teeth at the pain shooting through his leg but he fought to gain control of the horse. The animal, however, wouldn’t be tamed.

  Charging through the forest in a mad dash, the large warhorse finally brought them to a clearing. James cursed again as he struggled to calm the wounded animal. He spotted the small army of Bluecoats and veered the horse left.

  Right into a trap.

  James instantly recognized the familiar crackling of the cannon, but it was too late. The deafening roar splintered through the quiet night as a burst of white light flashed before him. Immense heat followed, scorching his flesh, until there was nothing but darkness.

  Chapter 1

  Two weeks later…

  “Siara, don’t get too close.”

  Siaragowaeh ignored the old healer’s sharp words and knelt beside the sleeping man. She gently placed her hand over his brow. He was now cool to the touch. She fell back on her haunches in relief. The fever was finally leaving his large body.

  “Siara!”

  “Don’t worry, Etu,” she said in their native tongue, preferring their language to that of the English. Though she needed the practice, Etu barely spoke the foreign language and despite the sachem’s encouragement to adopt the English tongue in their everyday speech, few of those in their clan—the Bear clan—did. She turned to the older woman and offered her a reassuring smile. “See, he’s still asleep.”

  “Not for long,” Etu grumbled, her thin lips narrowing further. “My night visions are never wrong. He will rise soon and I see nothing but trouble coming.”

  Siara hadn’t told the old medicine woman about yesterday, when the stranger had woken in a state of confusion and grabbed her arm in a painful grip. It was the first time he had become fully conscious, his eyes wide and wild. Fascinating eyes. As clear and blue as the sky above.

  She’d been startled, but not afraid, sensing his fear and need for reassurance. She could only imagine his confusion and delirium. For several days, he had fought the fever while she had tended to the wound on his right thigh. It had taken a gentle touch to his face before he had once again calmed and drifted off into a deep sleep.

  The risk she was taking by bringing him here was tremendous. Yet when she had found the wounded, motionless man fighting for his life, she hadn’t been able to leave him or turn him over to their clan mother, who would have simply deferred to the chief. Siara had recognized the man’s bright red uniform and knew he fought for the other side. Since her tribe now sided with the settlers, they wouldn’t care if the wounded man lived or died.

  Especially not her betrothed.

  Akando had become more ruthless since he’d been appointed the new chief warrior of his clan, the Wolf clan. From what she’d seen of his treatment of captured soldiers, she couldn’t possibly trust him with this vulnerable life.

  Though Siara had a deep appreciation for all those who breathed, she wasn’t ignorant to the ways of the Europeans. They took what they wanted with no regard for those before them. They staked claim on people, land, and things that did not belong to them. They ruthlessly killed and plundered without care or concern. Some of them were not to be trusted.

  Yet that did not stop her from helping this man.

  She was grateful Etu had agreed to keep her secret about the shrouded campsite they’d constructed around the fallen soldier. The crudely built shelter was supported against a large tree with low hanging branches, keeping it safely hidden. It was wide enough to fit three grown men, giving her and Etu enough room to move. Their secret camp was also a good distance away from their village, and she didn’t have to worry about anyone finding them. Not that anyone would venture this far from the village. Many were afraid to wander into these forsaken grounds.

  This part of their land had been condemned by the tribe’s council members for the many souls that had been lost along its border since the start of the fight between the whites. Yet it was a night vision that had propelled her to come here that fateful day. Her visions were never as consistent as Etu’s, and often meant nothing, but she’d come anyway, to pray for the lost souls here. That’s when she’d found him, barely clinging to life. Luckily, Etu hadn’t been afraid. She had believed they should bury the wounded man, to keep his spirit from living among them, but when he continued to live on through the night, Siara had been filled with hope. She hadn’t expected Etu to remain helping her this long, but was extremely grateful for it. With all her gray-haired wisdom, Etu had taught her a lot, but Siara’s skill for tending the sick was no match for the experienced healer.

  Siara checked the dressing around the man’s wound and was pleased to find it still healing nicely. It would scar—there was nothing she could do to prevent that—but it would be no worse than the jagged, puckered mark just below his left rib cage. He had many other faint scars, but none as bad as that one. Though his lean, well-muscled body was riddled with old and new marks, he radiated with life and she was determined to sustain it.

  As she reset the dressing on his leg, her gaze unconsciously slid over to the juncture of his thighs and lingered there. While the fever had raged in him, she and Etu had taken turns wiping him down and keeping him cool. Though she had tried to be discreet, she had gotten more than a glimpse of his male member and had been fascinated. He was built like a stallion, long and thick. Even now, it was outlined by the single sheet.

  Blushing, she glanced away.

  She’d seen other men nude during her care of the sick and wounded, but his body was the most magnificent. He was fair, but not as pale as some of the other Europeans she’d come across. The hair on his head and along his jaw was the color of dried grass. Those sprinkled on his chest, arms, and legs were a shade darker. His eyebrows were thick and framed his strong, broad face. A handsome, fascinating face.

  Everything about him fascinated her.

  “Siara, we cannot keep tending to him much longer,” Etu said as she brought over the cup of broth. “More of our men continue to arrive wounded and are more in need of our care. I need to focus my efforts on helping them. Not this one pale face.”

  “I understand, Etu,” Siara said dutifully, taking her place behind his head and gently propping it on her lap. The older woman had been a sort of guardian to her since she’d lost her parents some time ago, and she respected Etu like a grandmother. “I also appreciate your help in this, but I can’t give up on him now. Not until he can build his strength to leave us on his own.” How can I abandon him now when he is nearly well?

  Grumbling, Etu shook her head, her hunched shoulders stooping further in resignation. Siara paid her no mind as she gently jostled the man awake. He groaned. When his eyes flickered and partly opened, she reached for the cup and tilted it to his lips.

  “Drink,” Siara whispered softly in English. She slowly and steadily poured the warm liquid into his mouth. “He’s getting stronger every day,” she said to Etu. That left her conflicted. Though she was delighted to know he was getting better, the thought of him leaving here filled her with a sadness she couldn’t place or make sense of. It would be better for her and safer for him if he got well enough to leave their land soon. Yet for the past several days she had nursed him, had nurtured him back to health, and had come to care deeply for him and his well-being—more than she should have.

  After he’d taken enough sips to satisfy her, she laid down the cup and ran her fingers over his brows and temples. She enjoyed touching him. With each passing moment, his body hummed with life and strength.

  “He will be well soon,” she murmured. “I can feel it.”

  “You will also feel Akando’s firm hand on your backside when he finds out about this,” Etu retorted.

  Siara ignored her and beg
an humming a song meant to comfort and soothe her patient to sleep.

  Etu clucked her tongue. “You are threading fire, girl.”

  Siara glanced up at the old woman with a soft smile. “Everything will be fine, Etu. You will see.” She returned her attention to the man and continued running her fingertips along his brows, watching his features soften into sleep.

  There was a peace there, where there hadn’t been before. He was getting better and that was all she could hope for.

  ****

  The burning throb on his leg pulled him from his deep slumber.

  Sergeant James Blake steeled himself against the stabbing pain and slowly took in the sounds around him. He was still alive. A miracle to say the least. The vague sounds of a cannon blast and the faint stench of smoke were still very tangible to him. His body ached still and his leg hurt like hell, but he was grateful to be alive.

  It was morning now. The loud chirping of the early birds and the smell of fresh dew in the air told him that much. He kept his eyes closed, not moving a muscle. The soft voice that had spoken hours earlier was near. She spoke in a language he didn’t understand, but it was her.

  His dream woman.

  His angel.

  No, not an angel. Just a woman. A beautiful woman…but only a woman. He had finally managed to open his eyes yesterday—or had it been the day before? He couldn’t remember. Time swirled in his mind, and he lost what little memory he remembered of the ambush that had sent him flying from his horse.

  What he did remember was sun-kissed brown skin and large, chestnut-colored eyes.

  James continued to lie still when she came near him again. She was alone this time. Whoever it was she had spoken to had left her behind. The woman knelt beside him and briefly placed a warm hand on his cheek. Her light touch on his face and body was soothing—and jarring.