Night Thunder's Bride: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 3 (40 page)

He gave her a devilish grin, his lips close to her own, before he said, “Maybe two, if you please.”

She took a step backward, out of his arms, watching as his arms fell to his sides.

“What kind of kiss?”

Darn. There it was again, that dazzling smile. It made his face light up as though mood alone ruled his countenance. Worse, when she looked at him, her insides went all soft and warm, as though she were made of nothing but butter and rum. He said, “Should I show you the kind of kiss that I like?”

“Sir!”

He chuckled, closed one eyelid and winked at her. “It would be a simple kiss, two pairs of lips squeezed against each other.” He leaned down to her, but simply pressed his lips against one of his own fingers, which he then placed over her lips.

At the contact, her body reacted as though it was ready for so much more. She shut her eyes, feeling slightly faint.

“But I would reserve the right…” He paused, causing her to open her eyes. Drat! His handsome face swam in front of her, and at the sight, a smoldering fire fanned to life within her; her stomach somersaulted. He stood close; so close, she could smell the scent of mint on his breath, the musky fragrance of his skin, the fresh odor of buckskin.

“The right,” he continued, “to hold you in my arms when I kiss you.”

“Oh, I see. I…I’m not sure.”

“Are
you
afraid, then? Afraid you might start to feel something besides a white woman’s contempt for an Indian?”

“You know that’s not true,” she whispered. “You know from speaking to me tonight that I don’t hold this opinion.”

He drew in a deep, ragged breath. “
Aa
,
yes,” he said. “You are right, and I apologize for saying that. You are not the kind of person to feel scorn for another, are you? Simply because he is different than you are. So if not that, what are you afraid of?”

“I…I’m afraid that I might…” She didn’t finish the sentence. She wasn’t certain that she herself understood what she’d been about to say. Although there was one thing she knew she could count on…her mind’s ability to reason. She said, “Y-you are correct. The stakes should be something we are unwilling to part with. You, to aid something alien to you. Me, to give up my work, and a kiss.”

He nodded. “Seems fair.”

“All right, then I…I believe we have a venture, Mister, ah…Soaring Eagle. Sh-shall we shake on it?” She would have held out her hand, except that he stood too close to her to do so.

“We could,” he said, “or perhaps we could do something better.”

And before she could stop him, he gathered her hand in his, bringing it, glove and all, to his lips. She gasped. Not because of what he was doing, but because…

He glanced up at her and smirked. “When I was at the white man’s school,” he said, “I learned an odd custom. At first I thought it was a strange practice, but the more I thought about it, the more and more I appreciated the wit of the white man.” And turning her hand palm up, he pressed another kiss against her wrist.

Kali’s heartbeat raced out of proportion to the action, and it was all she could do to stand upright at the moment, for her knees threatened to collapse beneath her. And truth to tell, she had little time to hide her reaction from him, for when he raised his head and said, “I believe we have a wager, Little Miss Redhead,” his look was so full of mischief, she wondered if she had, perhaps, made a tactical error…

To shape her life, she may have to sacrifice her heart.

The Vow

© 2012 Lindsay Chase

Hannah Whitby’s dreams of marrying for love are dying too soon. Faced with backbreaking labor on her uncle’s tobacco farm or a loveless marriage, she chooses the lesser of the evils. Perhaps one day she and Reiver Shaw will become joined at the heart, as her long-dead parents once were.

Time and again she proves her worth not only in the childbed, but as a helpmate in making Reiver’s silk mill a success. Yet even as she earns his respect, the ultimate prize—his love—eludes her.

Only one man sees her true worth. Reiver’s artist brother, Samuel. Yet to succumb to Samuel’s desire to fulfill her, body and soul, could come at too high a price. As she fights a battle on several fronts—her marriage, her desire, and keeping the business afloat amid the escalating conflict between North and South—Hannah must come to a decision.

To break under the strain, or grow strong…and make the choices that define a lifetime.

This book has been previously published.

Warning: Contains a plucky heroine who learns her true worth lies beyond a man’s definition. You may not agree with all of her choices, but you’ll cheer for her all the same. Happy ending guaranteed.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
The Vow:

A light appeared in the downstairs parlor window, and Reiver watched as Cecelia, oblivious to his presence, lit an oil lamp. The light bathed her in golden warmth, reminding him of the night five years ago when he had first seen her.

He had come to her father’s house hoping that the wealthy sea captain—one of Hartford’s “River Gods” with a fleet of tall-masted ships sailing out of New London for the West Indies—would hire a poor boy from Coldwater. Just as he climbed the front stairs he caught a glimpse of the captain’s lovely young daughter gracefully lighting an oil lamp. She symbolized all of Reiver’s aspirations, and he fell in love with her right then and there.

Since Reiver had been too proud to use the back door that night, Cecelia’s contemptuous father didn’t hire him, and his daughter later married someone more suitable. But Reiver never forgot his desire for her. After Cecelia became a widow at the age of twenty-two, and Reiver became more prosperous, he wangled an introduction, and later they became lovers.

He watched as Cecelia replaced the lamp’s glass chimney and moved away from the window with unselfconscious grace. Then he walked up the rest of the steps and knocked on the front door.

When Cecelia answered it, her huge brown eyes danced with a mixture of pleasure at seeing him and confusion that he had come so late in the day. Still, her radiant smile was like a balm on turbulent waters.

“Reiver!” she murmured in her soft, melodious voice that he had ached for days to hear. “I’m so glad to see you.” She took his hat, then drew him into the shadowed foyer.

He closed the door behind him and swept her petite form into his arms, reaching hungrily for her mouth with his own. Cecelia stood on tiptoes for his kiss.

Reiver groaned against her mouth, letting the delicious heat radiate from his groin. When it nearly consumed him, he set her away from him, held her at arm’s length, and studied her. “I’ve never seen a woman with such a tiny waist. That dress makes it look even smaller.”

“Reiver Shaw, you’re the only man I know who pays attention to what a lady wears.”

He grinned. “Or doesn’t wear.”

Cecelia slapped his hand playfully. “Come into the parlor. We’ll have some elderberry wine and you can tell me all the latest news about your mill.”

Reiver loved Cecelia Layton not for her amatory prowess as his mistress, but because she ministered so tenderly to his spirit. No matter how much time passed between Reiver’s visits, Cecelia never admonished him for neglecting her, never pressed to see him more often. When he was with her, he felt the worries of the world slide from his shoulders like an old skin and peace envelop him.

He sat down on the settee and she glided over to the sideboard to pour two glasses of elderberry wine. Then she handed him one and sat down beside him, her wide skirt brushing his knee.

She raised her glass. “To Shaw Silks.”

He toasted the mill, took a sip, then set down his glass. He was about to hurt her cruelly, and if she never wanted to see him again, he wanted it over and done with.

Her face clouded as she divined his mood with her usual perceptiveness, and she placed her hand on his. “Reiver, what’s wrong?”

He knew no painless way to tell her. “I’m getting married.”

Cecelia grew very still and the color drained from her face, leaching all the sweetness and joy with it, until she was as pale as a death mask.

Reiver waited for her to scream, sob, claw his face to ribbons, or at least swoon, but all she did was stare wordlessly out of glazed brown eyes.

He squeezed her lifeless hand. “Say something. Please.”

Cecelia’s lips moved, but no sound came out. She finally croaked, “Do you love her?”

He hadn’t expected that. He dangled his arms across his knees and bowed his head in shame. “No. I love you and I always will. I’m only marrying her for the land I need to expand the mill someday.”

And while Cecelia listened, Reiver told her about Ezra Bickford’s offer and why he had agreed to marry Hannah Whitby.

He stared at the worn Turkish carpet, unable to look at the woman who deserved so much better for her love and loyalty. “I wish I had married you before this, but the mill has been struggling, and I wanted to be on more solid financial ground so I’d be worthy of you.”

“Oh, Reiver, that wouldn’t have made any difference to me.”

“I know that now, but it’s too late.” He sighed dismally. “I wouldn’t blame you if you told me to leave this house and never come back.”

He heard Cecelia sigh, then felt her small gentle hands rest soothingly on his bent shoulders. She said, “I couldn’t bear not seeing you again.”

Reiver sat up and looked at her. “Did you hear what I said? I’m going to marry someone else.”

“I heard you.”

“And you want to go on seeing me?”

She nodded slowly. “If you’ll still have me. You may fall in love with your wife and not want me.”

“Not want you?” He shook his head. “I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you in your father’s house, and I’ll always want you.”

“I love you, Reiver,” she whispered. “When you love someone, you want them to be happy. Shaw Silks is your dream. And if you need that land to make your dream come true…”

He buried his face in her silken chestnut hair that smelled faintly of sweet heliotrope. “I don’t deserve you, Cecelia Layton. I don’t deserve you.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“You’re too understanding.”

“And you’re my life.”

Later, after Reiver left, Cecelia lay in her dark bedchamber and stared at the ceiling. Her bed was still warm from her lover’s body and the tousled sheets smelled strongly of their shared passion.

Reiver Shaw was not going to marry her after all. That realization was like winter ice encasing her heart.

Cecelia knew she should have told him that their liaison was over, but the thought of never seeing him again, of never having him share her bed, hurt more than her shattered pride. But then, she had no pride where Reiver was concerned. She would accept whatever crumbs of his life he deigned to share with her, and accept them gladly.

But his betrayal still hurt.

She buried her face in her pillow and sobbed until she had no tears left to shed.

Night Thunder’s Bride

Karen Kay

To save her life, they must expose their hearts.

Blackfoot Warrior, Book 3

When lady’s maid Rebecca Cothern journeyed westward, she never thought to leave her mistress’s side. Yet as Katrina Wellington completes her own journey with White Eagle, Rebecca waits at Ft. Union under the protection of Blackfoot warrior, Night Thunder.

Despite what she’s been told about the wild nature of the native tribes, Night Thunder is different. Kind, gentle, honorable to a fault…and handsome in a way that makes her breathless for his next touch.

Though Night Thunder relishes stolen moments with the beautiful white woman, circumstances dictate that he should keep his distance. Until she is stolen away in the night, and he discovers he cannot simply ride into the enemy camp, kill the guilty and sweep her to safety. The thieves are vengeful malcontents from his own tribe, which leaves him only one way to save her from the worst kind of violation.

He must claim that she is his bride. Not only that, she must willingly bare all—heart, soul and body—to claim him as hers.

This book has been previously published.

Warning: Contains warm, sensual love scenes that are certain to have you reaching for your own true Night Thunder.

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.