Wild Innocence (10 page)

He enjoyed the way her expression brightened. “Oh! I'll make you some meat and squash then,” she said. “We have a lot of squash.” She turned to leave.

He reached out and latched onto her wrist. Then in a fluid motion, he slid his hand down her wrist and shifted his fingers to intertwine with hers. She gave a little gasp as they locked gazes; then she glanced down at their joined hands.

“You can bring food,” he said, “after you give me a bath.”

“Be careful,” Rachel warned as she entered the room and approached Black Hawk's bed. She was inwardly trembling as she carried in a small kettle of steaming water and poured some into the basin on the bed table. She had moved the table some distance from the bed, for fear that she would accidentally spill the hot water and burn her patient in the process.

When water had filled the bottom third of the bowl, Rachel left the room to return the kettle to the kitchen. Then she fetched a bucket of cold water to lower the temperature of the bathwater.

Please, Lord, help me through this,
she thought as she entered the room minutes later with a pail.
Let me do this without making an absolute fool of myself.

She carefully set the pail on the floor near the bed. Knowing she could no longer stall, she grabbed a small fabric square and plunged it into the water. She gasped at the heat. She had forgotten to add the cold water. Tears stung her eyes as she mentally berated herself.

“You are hurt, Rach-el?” Black Hawk asked in his deep, dark voice.

She sighed, then faced him. “I'll be fine.”

“Let me see your hand.”

She shook her head.

“Rach-el.”

She held out her hand, which looked slightly pink but not seriously burned. His fingers felt cool on her wrist. She was startled by the contact.

“You must be careful. Such pretty hands to be hurt so.”

To her complete astonishment, he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the tender flesh. She felt her cheeks burn as she stared at him. He kept her hand to his mouth and held her gaze.

He released her fingers slowly, and she stared at him, entranced, reluctant to pull away.

“The water is cooling quickly,” he said in accented English.

She nodded and tore her gaze away. Turning her attention back to the basin, she carefully moved the table closer to the bed. Then, after draping a towel over the edge of the mattress in case she needed it, she soaped up the linen square and began to lather and wash Black Hawk's right arm.

Bathing the brave embarrassed her. If she felt this way over washing his arm, how was she going to feel when she had to wash more ... intimate parts of him?

Perhaps she could just wash his limbs and then hand him the soapy cloth. She chanced a peek at his expression. No, she thought, he'd tell her father, who would be upset that she couldn't perform this simple job.

So she would bathe Black Hawk... wherever he needed to be washed.

His arm was muscular, slightly bruised, but sleek and firm to the touch. Rachel rubbed his arm until the soap formed a rich lather, then dipped the cloth and rinsed his skin. Now that she'd done the one arm, she debated where to wash next. His chest seemed the most likely place, but she wasn't ready for that yet. She skirted the bed instead to wash the opposite arm.

Black Hawk didn't say a word as she worked, for which she was grateful. She wasn't sure how she'd handle this if he mocked her or made comments that would only add to her uneasiness.

When both arms were done, she looked at his expression, and saw that he was lying with eyes closed, with tiny lines of pain across his brow.

“Black Hawk,” she whispered. “Are you all right? Shall I continue?”

He raised his eyelids, focusing his dark gaze on her. “Yes. I am well.”

He wasn't well, she thought, but she wasn't going to argue with him. If nothing else, she'd learned during these last few minutes that Black Hawk might have wanted this bath, but he wasn't particularly enjoying it. His pallor, the tension on his face, suggested to Rachel that perhaps Black Hawk needed to rest more than he needed to be washed. Still, he'd said he wanted her to bathe him, so bathe him she would.

She came around to the basin again, rinsed out the washcloth, and rubbed it with soap. Eyeing him with a frown, Rachel looked at his bruised chest and shoulder wound, then began to gingerly cleanse his neck and breast area. He winced when she washed too close to the bullet wound. Murmuring an apology, she quickly withdrew the cloth and concentrated on his stomach area instead.

A blanket still covered him from the waist downward. Did he expect her to remove that bedcover and wash beneath?

He wore nothing besides the blanket. Her father had removed the brave's loincloth that first day in order to attend to contusions and injuries to his groin and upper thigh area. Rachel had been out of the room. John Dempsey had been the only one thus far who'd doctored Black Hawk's most private area.

Was there a way she could avoid that private place?

She looked at him. His eyes were still closed, but he seemed relaxed now. The sight of his ease encouraged her to continue. If she could make him feel better by giving him a bath, then why should she be nervous or embarrassed?

She lathered his stomach, and found herself fascinated with the taut muscles of his belly and his smooth skin. Here, the flesh had somehow managed to remain uninjured. Surveying the surrounding area, Rachel narrowed her gaze and silently wished a terrible pox on the men who had done this to him.

She gave no more thought to embarrassment as she carefully lowered the blanket to ease the washcloth over one hip. She kept his most private parts covered as she ran the cloth down his leg from hip to thigh to knee and to calf. He had little body hair. The lack of it surprised her, but it made him seem no less of a man. In fact, he was more masculine than any man she'd ever met ... and that included Jordan.

She felt a moment's guilt. She had loved Jordan. She still did—didn't she?

She didn't want to think of Jordan now. She'd lost too much sleep and spent too many nights crying over the man. She was sure that Black Hawk wouldn't betray the woman he'd chosen for his wife.

Wife? Was he married? she wondered. Did the Ojibwa marry the way she understood marriage to be? Or did they spend time with one woman before finding another?

Her thoughts went wild as she moved around to the other edge of the bed, where she began to wash his opposite side.

She glanced upward, saw that his eyes were open, and froze. “Am I hurting you?” she asked him, feeling awkward.

He shook his head. Black Hawk stared at the woman before him, fascinated by the red color on her cheeks. He was tired, so tired. Her ministrations soothed him. He enjoyed her touch, the warm water, the gentle way she rubbed the cloth over him. He was sore and sensitive in certain areas, but he didn't want Rachel to stop.

“Perhaps I should leave you to sleep,” she said, averting her gaze.

“I would like you to finish,” he said.
“Daga.
Please.”

She looked at him. He held her gaze unflinchingly. There was something that attracted him to her. He felt helpless lying here injured, but the fact of her presence made bearable his efforts to remain still.

Rachel's hair was tousled, and she had a streak of something across her right cheek. She looked tired, but lovely. He'd never wanted to touch a woman the way he wanted to touch Rachel. Since he couldn't give in to the urge to caress her, he satisfied himself with his enjoyment of her hands on him.

Unable to tear her gaze away from Black Hawk's face, Rachel rubbed a little harder than was warranted, and he grimaced. She apologized profusely and felt her cheeks turn bright red.

I can't do this,
she thought, gazing at that bedcover.
I can't remove the blanket and wash his ... genitals.

She avoided that area, lifting the edge of the blanket just enough to wash his left leg. When she was done, she went to the basin, dropped in the cloth, then with a brief glance in his direction, she began to gather the bath supplies.

To her relief, he appeared to be sleeping. He didn't open his eyes or speak as she picked up soap, damp towels, and basin, then left.

Two days later, she was not so lucky. Black Hawk was still there, and her father had decided that it was bath time again. This time the Ojibwa brave watched her the entire time she prepared for and then gave him his bath.

It was extremely disconcerting for Rachel to have Black Hawk's dark eyes studying her while she carried in the water and supplies. She flushed brightly when his onyx gaze followed her every movement as she soaped up the cloth, then turned her attention to washing her patient.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, trying conversation to banish her uneasiness.

“I am well.” He shifted, and the movement called her attention to the rippling of his arm muscles as he braced himself and pushed himself to rest higher against the headboard.

“Father said you'll be able to go home soon,” she replied, keeping her attention on washing his muscled arm.

He didn't respond, and she looked at him. His eyes glowed as they locked gazes. “You wish me to leave?” he asked.

“I didn't say that,” she said, looking away.

She gasped when he caught her wrist. “You have cared for me a long time. You wish me to go home so you can rest.”

On the contrary,
she thought. Black Hawk made her feel restless, not tired. When she was near him, she felt more alive than she'd ever felt before.

“I am fine,” she said, trying to pull away, but the brave's grip was firm. “It's important that you get well.” She heard noise in the outer room, and she shifted her gaze to the door. “That will be Daniel. He came earlier to visit while you were sleeping.”

Black Hawk released her wrist and slid his fingers up her bare arm. She shivered with pleasure and moved away.

“I think you're all clean now,” she said brightly. She could feel the heat in her cheeks.

With a slight wince, he shifted and grabbed her arm. “I have not had a proper bath,” he said softly. His eyes glowed. He gestured with the other hand toward the private area beneath the sheet.

She could feel herself flush from the neck upward as she gazed at him with horror. “Here then,” she said as she slapped the wet washcloth across his chest. “You seem well enough to handle it. Wash there yourself!”

She left the room, muttering angrily under her breath when she heard his deep chuckle fill the room.

 

 

She was cleaning the surgery when she felt someone's presence. Rachel turned and gasped. A strange Indian stood inside the room not far from her. He wore an unusual headdress and was an elderly man. Her heart began to pound as she approached him.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a shaky voice.

The man muttered something in his native tongue. Rachel glanced helplessly beyond him to the door; she hadn't understood a word he said.

She shook her head. “I'm sorry but I don't know what you're trying to tell me.”

The Indian repeated his words.

This time Rachel eyed the door behind her. She felt a rising panic.

Hugging herself with her arms, she looked back at him. “I wish I knew what you were saying!”

“My chief wishes to know where you are keeping me,” Black Hawk's voice said from behind her.

“Black Hawk! I thought you were sleeping.” Rachel spun to see the injured Ojibwa brave leaning heavily against the doorjamb. “Your chief?” she asked.

Black Hawk nodded, then stood upright, and swayed on his feet. Seeing his pallor, Rachel rushed to his side and put her arms around him to steady him. The heat of his muscled flesh enveloped her instantly. She became conscious of his scent. He smelled of the soap she'd used earlier when she'd bathed him, and another extremely pleasant scent that belonged only to Black Hawk.

“You should not be out of bed,” she told him as she tightened her hold on him.

He smiled down at her before he spoke softly to his chief.

The chief answered back. Rachel thought she detected concern in the old Indian's voice.

“Come,” she said to Black Hawk. “You must get back to your room. Tell your chief he may come if he'd like.”

Black Hawk's dark gaze flickered with amusement as he glanced at her before addressing his chief.

Rachel waited patiently for the chiefs answer. The man spoke, and Black Hawk translated. “Big-Cat-with-Broken-Paw thanks you. His only desire is to see his Ojibwa father, Black-Hawk-Who-Hunts-at-Dawn.”

“His father!” She frowned as she looked at the old man and then Black Hawk. “How can that be?”

Black Hawk's onyx eyes lit up with laughter. “We do not use the word
father
as you do. I am his father and he is mine.”

“I see,” she said, but she didn't. She began to urge him back into his room. “Please, Black Hawk, you must lie down before you fall on your face.”

“Such a demanding woman,” he whispered teasingly, but he allowed her to lead him back to bed.

Once she had made sure that Black Hawk was comfortable, she turned, then drew a sharp breath as she came nose-to-nose with Big-Cat-with-Broken-Paw.

“Tell the chief that he must not tire you,” she said.

There was a moment of silence. Rachel glanced back at Black Hawk to find him studying her strangely. She flushed and turned back to the chief.

“Tell him, Black Hawk.”

The chief frowned at her and said something to Black Hawk. Slowly, carefully, the recovering Ojibwa brave answered.

The elderly Indian stared at her hard.

Rachel shivered. “What did you tell him?”

Black Hawk didn't respond.

Had he fallen asleep? She glanced back. He hadn't. “Black Hawk?” She felt a chill. “What did your chief say?”

His expression was solemn as he regarded her. “He asks why the white woman with hair of brown fire keeps me prisoner.”