'Yes. I think I may well give her back to you. When I am finished with her.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well. She is a very pretty thing.'
'Don't you dare!' Shouts Smith, desperate, at the point of madness himself, as his daughter rocks in Thomas' arms.
And Pocahontas. Pocahontas, opposite the man holding a gun to her head – she spits in his face.
The man pulls forth a handkerchief, wipes his face clean.
The way he looks at her changes. He looks at with anger. Disgust.
Something else.
'I do have some standards, John Smith. For example, I obey Leviticus in all things. As such, I would not…lie…with a beast such as the one before me, as you did. My crew, on the other hand, are not so well versed in the scriptures as I.'
There is a silence. John reaches for the gun at his own belt, without thinking, but the Marquis is holding a gun to the head of the woman he loves.
And either way…
Hopelessly, he watches the man who has hunted his daughter and him for their whole lives, the monster of a man, nightmare incarnate, push back the hair of the woman he – cares for – and knot his hand into the thick tresses so tightly it must hurts.
And, with a marbled face, pointing the gun at her head, pull her from the room, and lock the door behind him.