Cherokee Storm (22 page)

Shannon offered a shy smile, and he rolled onto his side and reached out to catch a lock of her hair. He rubbed it between his fingers, then leaned closer and brought her hair to his lips.

She watched him as if in a daze.

But not in a daze. Shannon knew exactly what she was doing as she reached out for him. What she wanted to do. What she would do. She might not live another day, but she would live for this moment. She would savor every second…every caress…every sensation.

Storm Dancer pressed his mouth to hers. He did not speak of his wife. He did not speak of her husband. Nothing existed beyond the evergreens towering over her and the taste of Storm Dancer, the thrust of his hard tongue, the scent of him in her head.

She molded her hips to his, returning his kisses hungrily. How many times had she dreamed this dream? Only now it wasn't a dream. Storm Dancer was here in her arms, here to touch…to taste.

The early morning air was cool on her skin, but Shannon was suddenly overly warm. Perspiration beaded above her upper lip. The skirt and bodice she'd slept in felt restricting. Suffocating. As he kissed her cheek, the line of her jaw, the pulse of her neck, she plucked at the ties of the bodice, frustrated that she could not untie them fast enough.

He brushed her fingertips away and nimbly untied her from the confines of the fabric, all the while gazing into her eyes.

Such warmth, such depth…His dark eyes seemed to reflect all that was good about the world, even in this terrible hour of catastrophe. So much tenderness in his gaze…such deep passion.

Shannon sat up to help him pull her shift over her head. Whatever shyness she had felt the first time they'd made love was gone. It only seemed right that she should be naked in his arms. And he naked in hers…

She pushed the leather vest off one wide shoulder and kissed the bronze skin. She marveled at the contours of his beautiful muscles. Overnight, she had come to love the smooth, hard planes of a man's body…this man's body.

Her breath came fast as she explored, and her heart thudded beneath her breast. She could already feel her need for him deep inside. So deep and fierce was that aching, that she knew she would die if she didn't have him.

Storm Dancer pushed her back down into the mossy bed they shared, and when she gazed up into his eyes, she knew she would never love a man the way she loved this man. No matter what happened, no matter where she went or how far from this forest her life took her, she would never love the way she loved at this moment.

Shannon shuddered as he caught one of her breasts in his palm and squeezed gently. Both nipples puckered in response, and she moaned, pressing her hips to his, feeling his hardness through the soft leather of his leggings.

He closed his mouth over a nipple and sucked, first gently, then harder. She threaded her fingers through his hair, cradling his head, encouraging him. Her senses soared and her need became more urgent. “Storm Dancer,” she whispered.

His mouth found hers again and she strained against him.

She tried to speak against his lips. “I—”

“Shh,” he whispered. “Do not speak. Do not break the dream spell.”

She met his gaze, her breath ragged, her chest heaving. “This is a dream?”

“Do you wish it to be?”

She shook her head.

Again he smiled and she almost laughed. Kissing him again, she parted her thighs, and he slid his hand between them. She groaned with pleasure, rocking against him.

As they kissed, the urgency became deeper. She wanted to tell him to stop. She didn't want to waste a moment of the ecstasy so close at hand. But the words didn't come, and she couldn't stop herself. Shannon wrapped her arms around his neck and moved against his hand until her world burst into shards of pleasure.

She buried her face in his shoulder, breathing hard. But to her surprise, her need seemed to be even greater now. Nothing would satisfy her but the feeling of him bursting inside her. “Now,” she whispered, pushing down his loincloth.

She didn't know what made her so bold. Was the end of their life at hand?

Storm Dancer tore away the leather binding and sprang hard and hot against her leg. She closed her eyes, guiding him over her, into her.

A rush of relief filled her as he pressed her into the soft moss of their makeshift bed. Then the urgency began to build again. She lifted her hips to meet his thrusts, crying out in the morning air, as her muscles contracted and the very fiber of her being peaked and fell.

Shannon caressed his bare buttocks, encouraging him as he thrust hard, faster. Certain she was spent, she was shocked to feel the heat inside her flame up yet again.

This time they shuddered in unison, and at last, she felt fully satisfied as she had never felt before in her life.

Shannon lay back on the thick moss and smiled as she watched Storm Dancer bathing in the spray from the spring bubbling out of the rock wall. How beautiful he was, she thought. Her man. Surely God could not have created a more perfect mortal. Muscles rippled on his back and arms and long hard thighs beneath smooth bronzed skin. His legs were perfectly proportioned, his shoulders wide, his wet hair a cascade of black silk.

What kind of wanton was she that she could take such pleasure in a man's body when she was in mourning for her newly deceased father? Three times in broad daylight? The doors of hell must loom wide for her. She was both an adulterer and a shameless daughter.

What had passed between her and Drake—their sham marriage—counted for nothing. Not even a saint could blame her for casting off a union with a child murderer. But for Storm Dancer, it was different. He wasn't free, and that mattered more than the color of their skins or what language he spoke. Whether he was heathen or not, he had his own religion and beliefs. He was already married.

She had sinned. She had stolen what belonged to another. There could be no lasting happiness built on another's woman's pain. No matter how much she wanted to go with Storm Dancer, to turn her back on the English world, to make his people her people, she could not. Whoever that other woman was, Storm Dancer was hers.

She couldn't blame what had happened on fear or hysteria. He had not seduced or forced her. She had given herself to him willingly. And, heaven help her, she would do it again. But when they left this glorious spot to return to the Cherokee village, she would never find ecstasy in his arms again.

Somehow, she would find her way east and begin to build her life again. For so long, that had been the fate that she'd dreaded, but now everything had changed. She could never go back to Green Valley, and she couldn't remain with Storm Dancer. She had no choice but to return to an English world that had never welcomed her.

She wasn't afraid of hard work. She could find employment in any tavern. But she would never give her heart to another man, and she would never marry. So long as she drew breath, she would consider this man her true husband. And when she passed from this world to the judgment at heaven's gate, she would gladly pay the price for her sin.

She rolled onto her back and gazed up at the sky. Eden must have been like this, she thought, so green, and fresh, the air scented with the sweet smell of violets, evergreens, and wild mint. Far above the treetops, white clouds drifted in an azure sky. When she was a child, her father had pointed out the shapes of ships and animals and angels in the snowy puffs. She'd believed Da could work magic, changing the shapes to please her. Today, she needed no fairy magic to make her heart sing. The clouds were perfect in their own form, slowly moving across a vast heaven.

She had been through hell in the last weeks. She had killed a man, possibly two, she had survived starvation and a madwoman, and she had fled from certain death. Here, she would restore herself and find the strength to do what must be done. So long as she'd had Flynn and the promise of a half sister or brother, she hadn't been alone in the world. But she had lost them. She had only herself.

She closed her eyes and might have slipped into sleep except for the brush of soft butterfly wings on her forehead and nose and cheeks. “What are you—” she began, and then broke into giggles as she saw Storm Dancer standing over her, showering her with violet petals.

Laughing, he flung himself down beside her and drew her into his arms. “What am I to do with you, woman?” he teased. “You have hair as yellow as the yolk of a duck egg and skin as white as snow. Your eyes are round, and—”

She placed her hands on his damp chest and pretended to push him away. “Are you saying I'm ugly?”

“I cannot tell. You are a witch, and it may be that you can turn into any form that you wish.”

“I'm no witch.”

“You must be,” he insisted. “You've cast a spell over me. I cannot say if you are more beautiful than a sunset or as wrinkled as a toad. My eyes are blinded. You hold my soul in the palm of your hand.”

“A toad? You've been making love to a toad?”

He caught her hand and kissed her knuckles, then turned it over to trail kisses over her palm and up the underside of her wrist. In one move, he rolled her onto her back and pinned her to the moss. “Now you are my prisoner, toad witch.”

She giggled and entwined her legs with his. The heat of his thighs warmed hers, and desire stirred. She nipped his bare shoulder with her teeth and arched against him, reveling in the length and power of his body. “I don't believe you,” she said between kisses. “You are the one who has cast a spell over me.”

She gasped as she felt the first caress nudging at her woman's folds. Instinctively, she opened to receive his thrust. It was wrong what they were doing. She knew it was wrong, but she couldn't help herself. She wanted him inside her so badly, needed him. And soon she could never have him again.

They moved together, giving and taking, sharing the ancient dance of love. Faster and faster, harder, deeper, until the tension inside her exploded in a cascade of shooting stars and she cried out in her sweet, sweet release. Another two powerful thrusts, and he groaned as he found his own climax. Panting, sweat sheened, he cradled her in his arms and murmured love names into her ear as they drifted back to earth together.

Later, when reason returned and she could speak again, she grasped his hand and kissed it as he had kissed her. But when she turned his lean hand over, she saw the mark on his palm and felt a rush of compassion. “A scar,” she murmured. “What caused—”

He chuckled. “I was born with that. It is not an injury.” He spoke in Cherokee now, as she realized he did most of the time, and most of the time, she understood. “A spirit sign.”

“It looks like lightning.”

“It does.” He sat up, pulled his hand free, and curled it into a fist. “Much trouble that mark has brought me. It's why my mother and the council women chose Cardinal to be my wife.”

Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. He reached over her and picked up the belt and knife that lay heaped beside her clothing. “Where did you get this?”

She blinked. “What?”

“My knife. Where did it come from?”

Her mouth went dry. “Your knife? It can't be.”

“I noticed it missing days ago. I must have lost it at the post when I went to find you before.”

Fear and suspicion shot through her. “What do you mean? When did you come?”

He hefted the knife, turning it this way and that. “It's mine. See my mark carved into the handle? The lightning bolt.”

She drew back away from him. “You lost it at Da's trading post?”

“I went to find you, to ask you to come away with me, but you had already gone to your white husband. Oona told me.”

“I don't understand.”

His features hardened. “Before I could find you, you had already chosen one of your own kind.”

She got to her feet and began to dress hurriedly. “You've no right to accuse me. You married your Cardinal first. Was I supposed to wait for a married man?”

“Married?” He stared at her. “I have no wife.”

“Don't lie to me,” she flung back. “Cardinal. The woman your mother chose for you.” Angry tears welled up in her eyes. “The woman you cheated on by making love to me.”

He shook his head. “You are wrong, heart of my heart.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the tears away. “Do you think I could take pleasure with you, knowing I had left a wife at home?”

“You'd not be the first husband to do so.”

“No. Not me. I refused Cardinal. I told her that I could not marry her because I love only you.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“Look into my eyes. You will see that I do not lie.”

Not married? He wasn't married? She began to tremble with relief. But Flynn had told her…If Storm Dancer was telling the truth, had her father lied to her? But seeing him holding the knife…the knife that had ended Da's life sent a shiver through her. “I thought…I…” She pulled away, dropped on the soft moss, and began to tug on her shoes. “Da…That knife killed my father.”

“You found the knife in his body?”

“No, Oona did, or she saw it.”

“And she said I was responsible?”

“No, she didn't. She…I told you, she doesn't talk since…since the attack. But she told me without using words. She left the knife on his grave as a sign he had been killed by stabbing.”

“And you believe that I thrust my knife into him? That I killed my friend?”

“No, no, of course not.”

That wasn't possible, was it? She'd loved two men in her life. That one could have murdered the other was too cruel to accept. “It was just a shock to learn the knife was yours.” She should have remembered where she'd seen the weapon before, shouldn't she? Had she deliberately not remembered something she didn't want to remember?

“I was with my father and uncle when your father was killed. I didn't know about the raid on the post,” he said quietly. “We were on a peace mission to meet with the French Colonel Gervais. It was a trap. We escaped, and I had to escort the tribal representatives home. Then I came to warn Truth Teller about the Shawnee.”

“And found me, instead.”

“And found you.” Hurt showed in his dark eyes. “I would not have you believe evil of me, Shannon.”

“No, I don't. It was just…” A rush of guilt gripped her. “I'm sorry.”

“There is no need. It was strange. A coincidence, and I do not believe in coincidences. There is more to this than I can see.”

She went to the spring and washed her face and drank, and then turned to face him. “What now?” she asked.

“Have you divorced your husband so soon?”

She pursed her lips. “It was no real marriage. There wasn't a priest. No religious ceremony at all. I found out something…”

She hesitated, unsure whether she should tell him that Drake was a murderer. Where did her loyalty lie? To a man who could kill a child and skin him as though he was an animal? “I went with him because my father said that I had to.”

Storm Dancer watched her. “And you are an obedient woman?”

“No, not particularly. But…I thought you had a wife, and my father found out about us. He didn't want me there with him anymore.”

“Now, I must tell you that I am sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, my Shannon.”

“It doesn't matter now.” She hurried to tell him what she thought might matter most to a man. “Drake and I…We never slept together.”

Storm Dancer arched a dark eyebrow. “It was never the sleeping part that worried me.”

She felt her cheeks grow warm. “You know what I mean. When I found out…when I discovered what kind of man he was, I told him that the marriage was over.”

“Did he leave your house?” His eyes grew serious. “After you argued, did he leave?”

“We did more than argue,” she admitted. “I threatened to cut off his penis if he ever came near me again.”

Storm Dancer laughed. “Among the
Tsalagi,
that would be a divorce.”

She took both of his hands in hers. “You have to believe me. I've never been with any man but you. I've never made love to another man, and I never will.”

He smiled at her. “Never is a long time.”

“I mean what I say,” she declared. “What do we do now? Where are you taking me?”

“Home, to my mother. I cannot stay with you. I must join my brothers to drive the Shawnee from
Tsalagi
land.”

“You're joining a war party? And leaving me with your mother?”

“I have no choice. She will keep you safe.”

“I don't want to go there. Can't I go to Split Cane's village instead?”

“My mother and my clan must recognize you as my wife. If there was no war, if I didn't have a duty to fight to protect the Cherokee, I would gladly go away to some distant mountain to be with you alone. But you and I cannot live like that. What happens when we have children? Is it fair that a child comes into the world without family?”

“You say I am your wife? You're talking about children. But you've never asked me to marry you.” She was being foolish; she knew she was being foolish, but she felt like a feather washed along the river in a spring flood. He wasn't asking her—he was telling her. How was he any different than Flynn, than Drake Clark? “I want to be asked.”

“You want words. Can't you read my heart? My soul?”

“What makes you think your mother will like me?”

He laughed again. “She won't, not at first. She will do whatever she can to make your life miserable.”

Shannon stared at him in dismay.

“My mother is a fair woman. When she comes to know you, she will love you.”

“What makes you so certain that she'll ever accept me—that any of the Cherokee will?”

“They will accept you because you are mine.” His smile became a boyish grin. “They have to—I'm the chosen one.”

 

Hannah Clark placed a three-legged milking stool on the ground next to the fire-scorched cabin and sat down. She shoved her head hard into the cow's belly, and began to squeeze the cow's teats. Two thin streams of milk arced into the bucket.

The house door banged open, and Hannah flinched. Heavy footsteps sounded. Hannah kept milking the cow.

Nathan swore loudly. “What do you think you're doin', woman?”

“What's it look like?” She sat back, straightened her mobcap, and scowled at him. “And I'll thank ye to watch your tongue. I'm a woman in mournin' fer her dead son.”

Nathan shuffled his big feet and knotted his callused hands into fists. “It's what I'm sayin', woman. Your youngest son is laid out in his coffin with pennies on his eyes. Your other boy is in pain, in what might be his deathbed, and you're out here, calm as a dead hen, milkin' this damned cow.”