Gray Hawk's Lady: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 1 (16 page)

She moaned.

She hadn’t meant to.

She turned just slightly, and suddenly his lips were on hers, the delicious taste of him upon her mouth.

That did it. She was lost.

She shifted around toward him, little knowing what she was doing, the silly robe forgotten as it fell to the ground.

Flesh met flesh as her bare breasts pushed against the hard wall of his chest.

And then the kiss deepened. His tongue met hers, and she was engulfed by him, he taking, she giving.

She’d never felt this way in her life, as if she belonged to him and he to her.

His hands came up to smooth back her hair from her cheeks, his touch firm, yet gentle and seeming to adore her. He smelled of wood, of smoke, of pure male scent.

And Genevieve whimpered.

That set him off as though he, too, couldn’t get enough of her, and the kiss deepened yet again, her body swaying toward him.

His lips left hers to trail kisses down her neck, up to her ear, down one side of her neck, up the other, over and over.

She sighed as sensation exploded within her, the sound of her soft whimpers lost to her own ears.

His hands reached down over her buttocks, and she strained against their feel, wanting more, wanting…

He pulled her in closer while his lips captured hers once again.

She moaned.

He groaned.

He spoke, his breath mingling with hers. “You had best pull the robe back up and around you.”

She could barely make out the words, her only thought being how wonderful he tasted.

“Little Captive, I don’t know how long I can take this without going further.”

She didn’t answer, only pulled his head back down to her and snuggled up closer.

“White woman of no honor,” he said as his lips trailed tiny kisses over her own, “if you do not back away from me now, you may never again have the chance.”

She stopped.

She also didn’t go away from him all at once, her lips still hovering near his. She drew back a quarter of an inch.

He breathed out deeply.

And, with their bodies pressed up closely to one another, she couldn’t help but notice just how ready he was for her.

She drew in a strangled, shallow breath.

“Gray Hawk,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “I…please don’t call me that again.”

“What?”

“White woman of no honor.”

“You do not like it?”

“No.”

“Then prove to me it is not true.”

“Oh!” she muttered. “I…”

Talking was useless, especially considering the state of her undress, how closely her body was snuggled up to his, the state of his arousal.

She really had no choice but to back away, pick up the deerskin robe and pull it quickly around her.

She started to turn, to flee into the shelter of the trees, but before she was able to take a step, he drew her back into his arms.

“There is much passion between us, white woman,” he said huskily, his head once again descending toward hers. “You must take the precaution of staying as far away from me as possible. I cannot say that I will be able to let you go if we get into another position like this.”

He kissed her then, his lips coming down over hers, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, his scent, his taste overwhelming her.

But before she reacted to it, to him, before she again fell victim to this insane desire, she pushed away from him, and with one last look at him, at the passion so clearly etched there in his eyes, she whimpered.

Then she turned and fled.

Chapter Ten

A week passed in much the same manner as it had since their escape from the boat. She slept through the day, traveling at night; he hunted, worked, rested during the day, guiding their course by starlight. She avoided him, but then she had always avoided him. The main difference was that since their kiss, she now projected sexual meaning into every small chore he did.

It was maddening.

When she watched him light a fire, she remembered the way his hands had felt upon her face. When the firelight shone on him, lighting up his features, she recollected how handsome he had looked under the dawning of a new day.

As he carved away at a piece of wood, she recalled his firm, yet gentle caress. Watching him carry a deer for skinning, she remembered his cradling her, holding her. He spoke; she watched his lips. He ate; she stared at his tongue.

It went on and on, and Genevieve began to despair that she was becoming obsessed. In truth, unless she could get away from him soon, she might likely seek him out and ask for his kiss:
a fate she could not allow to happen.

And so she found herself hoping for rescue, wishing for deliverance, longing for freedom—but most of all,
praying
for a change in attitude, an indifference toward him.

It didn’t happen.

But, even worse, she didn’t understand her reaction. Yes, the man was handsome, desirable, even beautiful in his own exotic way. But the man was also
Indian.
A mocking, discourteous, ungracious Indian at that. He was also not a man she should be allowing liberties with her.

She had never given much thought to the sort of man who might, at last, attract her, but if she had, it wouldn’t have been someone from an entirely different race, a completely alien society.

It would have been someone from her own social set, someone like her father, someone…

How could she be attracted to Gray Hawk? She could make no sense of it whatsoever.

Yet she could not deny the effect he had on her. How could she? She had to fight his allure daily.

She knew, too, from watching him, that he fared no better than she did. And though that should have brought her some measure of relief, it had the opposite effect on her: it stimulated her.

But he avoided her more now than he had ever done in the past. He no longer tied her, and the gag, which she had protested so much, had never again touched her lips. In truth, he did nothing that might lead to his having to touch her, nor get too close to her.

He said few words to her, too, and rarely did he even look her in the eye.

She knew she should thank him for his thoughtfulness in this; she even knew that she should acknowledge his strength of will. She found, though, that she couldn’t.

She felt like cursing him for that strength…then, contrarily, wanting him…disgusted with him all over again, and finally, returning full circle, enchanted with him.

But most of all, she found herself wanting him, his touch, his embrace; and though she was certain she would have rejected him had he made even the smallest of overtures toward her, conversely, she felt slighted when he didn’t.

Perhaps she was bored. Maybe that was her trouble. Or perhaps she suffered from captive-itis: a condition, she was certain, wherein the captive desired, became obsessed with, had wicked thoughts about, said captor.

She sighed, smiling and shaking her head. Whatever the problem, she hoped only for a resolution soon. Anything would do: rescue, escape, premature death,
something.
For, in truth, the current state of affairs was driving her mad.

“Why has the white woman not married?”

His question had the effect of striking out at her, so engrossed was she in her thoughts.

She had just awakened, pushing back the deerskin robe that had been covering her, and was yawning when his question came at her like an arrow upon its mark.

She hadn’t expected him to speak, had presumed they would continue much as they had this past week, each of them ignoring one another. If she had envisioned him talking to her, paying her any attention at all, she certainly wouldn’t have imagined his bringing up a subject so delicate. Not when they were both trying to pretend that they had no effect upon one another.

But then, she was measuring his responses by a set of English standards and sensibilities. She was no longer in England, and even if she were, Gray Hawk was not one to fuss over conventionalities.

She should have realized.

“Sir,” she said, sitting up and running a hand through her hair, “I would like you to know that I have a name.”

He raised an eyebrow, his only response.

“It is Genevieve, thank you very much.”

He inclined his head, then repeated, “Why has the white woman not married?”

She gave him a ladylike sniff. She looked at him but didn’t answer.

“White woman is beautiful. White woman is passionate. White woman is resourceful.” He stared at her directly. “Why, then, is white woman not married?”

“What makes you think that I am not married?”

He shrugged. “I know it.”

She came to her feet and, bending down, picked up the deerskin robe. She shook it out, being careful not to disturb Gray Hawk’s woodworking as she did so; his crafted arrows, bows and tiny statues were all, in her opinion, works of art.

She folded the robe and, looking around her, was amazed at the number of Indian articles they now possessed: moccasins, breechcloth, bags, belts, robes—all made by Gray Hawk…all carried, when they traveled, by her.

She shook out her hair and, with the deerskin robe still in her arms, gazed down at him, noting again his change in clothing. No longer did he wear the black breeches and boots. Those had long ago been replaced by breechcloth and moccasins.

She didn’t approve of the change, of course. Why should she? The Indian clothing exposed too much of him to her scrutiny, and his breechcloth did little to hide his natural endowment. She gazed there now.

He was altogether too handsome.

Realizing where she was looking, what she was thinking, she all at once brought her glance up to his. He grinned, and she bristled.

“Why not look at me closely, as you once instructed me to do, and find the answer to your question yourself?” she asked snidely. “Did you not teach me that you needn’t ask a person about a matter when the answer is right there before you?”

“I have been trying to do this,” he said, his gaze quietly resting upon her. “And I cannot discover the truth of it, though I am certain you are not married, nor are you in love with a man. What I cannot understand is why.”

“Well, you needn’t expect an answer, since I don’t believe I gave you permission to ask me such a personal question.”

He just stared at her. “I need no permission.”

“And I need not answer.”

She turned thereupon and started to walk away, but Gray Hawk was too quick for her. Springing to his feet, he caught her and locked her in his arms, bringing her up closely against him.

It was the first time he had held her, touched her, since that day one week ago.

She shut her eyes briefly, her reaction to his nearness sweeping through her like a tornado of fire.

He brought his head down toward hers. Again he asked, this time with his lips pressed closely to her ear, “Why are you not married?”

She shrugged out of his embrace, and though every fiber in her skin felt as if it were on fire, she held her head high, her chin out. “That is my affair.”

“And I am making it mine,” he said, stepping forward, staring at her as though she were quarry. “I ask you again, why?”

She shook back her hair, pushing it out and away from her face. She glared at him. She said nothing.

“Is the white woman running away?” He moved a step forward. “Is she promised to someone she cannot abide? Or does she merely wish a little excitement before she must settle into marriage?”

“Why, none of those.” She took a step backward.

“If she wishes to make love without marriage, I can surely accommodate her.” He pressed forward. “Is this the reason she has come into Blackfoot country? To play the part she desires without others within her society discovering her transgressions? The white trappers who captured me and brought me to you said this was so. They jumped me from behind. Did you know that?”

She shook her head. She backed away still farther. “No, I—”

“They knifed me in the side, and while two held me down, another one kicked me. And all the while they told me the things that you wanted, things you would do to me, telling me that you would have me this way because you could do no such thing in your own culture, not if you wished to live there in peace. At every kick, they told me what you would do to me. Sexual things. Sensual things. Very stimulating things.”

Her eyes wide, she took one more step backward.

“I thought these things that they told me were true. I could see no reason why they would not be…that is, until several days ago. And then it came to me that you had never exhibited any sexual overtures toward me when you held me captive, nor even more recently, when I held you close and you could have had me any way that you desired. And this, despite your own passion.

“It was this,” he continued, “more than anything else, that caused me to realize that the trappers lied. So now I find myself looking at you in a new way, and I find that I cannot discover why the white woman would come into Blackfoot country. I thought I understood this woman. I did not like her, but I understood her. I no longer do. Most of all, however, I wonder: if the white woman is not the sort of woman who desires many favors from many men, why then is this woman not married?”