Kitabı oku: «The Warrior's Captive Bride»

Prologue

Many Flowers Moon

Northern Yellowstone River Valley,

Crow Territory

1859

Night Storm stared down at the young woman standing before his horse and felt his throat go dry.

It was her.

His heart beat as fast as running feet and accelerated again when her eyes met his and she realized she’d been discovered. A glance would tell her that he was not enemy Sioux but one of the Crow people.

She grasped her collecting bag and straightened, her hand going to her skinning knife. What a picture she made, outwardly plain, her clothing drab as the feathers of a female pheasant. But it was not her clothing that appealed. Not even her elaborate moccasins and the ornately quilled sheath for her knife that fell between her full breasts. His little quail’s beauty was more subtle. She did not need feathers and beads. Her dress was not dyed a bright yellow or green or red like so many women he could name. Neither did she sew coins or elks’ teeth to the yoke of her dress. Her hair was long and braided, but she did not dress the braids with fur or trade cloth. In fact she seemed to have secured the ends with green grass. He chuckled at her complete lack of guile.

This one needed none of those adornments to shine. Her beauty came from her face and figure, her grace and poise, and also from her skills.

He knew of no other woman who would ever consider straying on her own so far from her tribe. But when she stood to face him, he did not see fear, just a kind of watchfulness.

“Why are you out here all alone?” he asked.

“I am not alone.”

“No?” He glanced about for some rival. Had she come to this place to meet someone? His teeth locked together.

“I am with you.”

His gaze snapped back to her to find her smiling. “And I am searching for someone else.”

“A lover?”

She flushed. “A heyoka.”

His dog, Frost, whined and then gave a single bark. It had been that bark that had given him away when he had discovered her here alone in the forest. He quieted his dog, who thumped to his seat. He should have left the mutt at camp, but since his accident Frost had been a near constant companion, and in truth he was good company.

“The heyoka. He is your father.”

She did not deny it but her eyes rounded. Was she surprised to discover that he knew this about her? She shouldn’t be. She was the most desirable woman of either the Wind Basin or Low River tribes. But none had offered for her because of her father’s power. It frightened most of the warriors. But he was not like the others. He had a secret he had kept since his vision quest. And his survival in the last battle proved he had powerful magic. Dangerous magic. His injury should have sent him to the spirit road. Why had he lived?

“How do you know my father?”

“I have seen him at the gatherings. And I have seen you.”

He knew she lived with her aunt, uncle and occasionally her father.

A heyoka was a difficult thing to be. And to choose this path was to choose a holy journey. Her father was a wise fool, a contrarian, revealing the people’s follies by demonstrating their foibles. He suspected that her father’s spiritual powers shone in his daughter. That power and wisdom, he needed it to understand his path.

“I could help you look.”

She stared up at this warrior of the Black Lodges people. His hair was black and braided at each temple. The rest fell down his shoulders and back like the mane of his horse. His forelock was cut and his bangs stood stiffly up in the fashion of all Crow warriors. He displayed the record of his accomplishments tied with leather cording in his loose hair, each eagle feather signifying honor earned in battle, in raids and in counting coup against his enemies. About his neck hung his medicine bundle, a string of white glass beads and a copper coin on a leather cord. She looked at the clean line of his collarbone and the smooth brown skin she could see through the opening in his hunting shirt, and felt the urge to touch him.

She had seen him at the gathering of tribes in the Winter Camp Moon. He had caught her eye immediately. But she was not alone in her interest. Many of the unmarried women had made complete fools of themselves as they vied for his attention. But she would not. Though now his steady stare made her skin itch and she resisted the urge to cast him a look of invitation.

She even knew his name. Night Storm. His name had power in it.

His gray dog came forward, bushy tail wagging, and sniffed her offered hand before trotting back to his master.

“We have not been introduced,” he said.

She lifted her chin and wondered if he found her as appealing as she found him.

“I am the daughter of Gathers Quills and Falling Otter. My name is Skylark.”

“I am Night Storm of the Black Lodges people.”

“I know.”

His brow quirked and his smile widened. Her breath caught at the transformation. This steady stare and the curling of his generous mouth made her twitch.

“You do?”

“I saw you at the gathering, as well. It is my honor to meet you, Night Storm.”

“Will you ride with me?”

She knew what he asked. It was not unheard-of. A woman met a man from another tribe. They rendezvoused in secret and one day he took her from her parent’s lodge. When the tribes gathered in the fall, she would return to her people with a new husband from another tribe. But she did not know this man.

Oh, she could see his accomplishments and his strength. But who was he on the inside?

“I do not know you well enough to ride with you.”

“Riding with me is a good way to get to know me better.” His smile coaxed and the glint in his eye enticed. She wanted to accept his offer, but that was not all she wanted. The tingling in her belly told her that. She also wanted a man of her own.

But she shook her head.

“Or, I could help you look for your father.”

She must find her father and get him back to camp, and she could use his help. He had a horse, after all.

“Come,” he coaxed.

He extended his hand and Skylark stared at the broad palm and long, elegant fingers. She was so tempted, but she remained where she was. Once on his horse there was no guarantee that he would help her search. He might just take her to his tribe. And while he was handsome and finely formed, she resisted her longing. She could not deny her desire, but caution still ruled. She ground her teeth together as she considered what to do.

She shook her head.

“I could just take you,” he said.

She weighed her options. None of the warriors of other tribes had offered for her. Her aunt, Winter Moon, said it was because they did not wish a wife who had more power than they did. Yet the man before her was handsome and willing. And he did not seem afraid.

The chance she took was small and mighty all at once. He was strong. She found his face appealing with a blade of a nose and thick arching brows set above deep brown eyes that watched her every move. She admired the clean line of his jaw and how the corners of his mouth lifted under her gaze in an expression of confidence and interest...in her. It was the sort of face she would never grow tired of seeing. Her heart ached just at the sight of him. Was this the longing her aunt had described, the kind she had never felt until she looked upon this man?

But who was he really? Did he have a good heart?

“I am a medicine woman. I do not cook or tan or sew. I would make you a bad wife.”

“You do not need to cook or tan or sew.”

Skylark’s eyes narrowed. What man would wish a woman who did not perform her duties? And then it struck her.

Her mother’s warning came to her as if whispered in her ear. Skylark straightened. He already had someone to do these things.

“You already have a wife?”

His smile flickered and the pause was a little too long. “I have not yet wed.”

Not yet. She narrowed her eyes feeling the half-truth crawling over her skin like a spider. “But you have offered for one?”

“You are too clever for a woman, Skylark. Why do you not come with me? You can meet Beautiful Meadow. You two could be as sisters. She will cook and you will make strong medicines.”

Skylark backed away. She would never be a second wife. Her mother had often told her that a second wife was little better than an enemy slave. She might fare better in the hands of the Sioux than in the lodge of a woman who did not want her there.

“I will never be a second wife.”

“Then be my first wife. I will marry you first.”

“You do not even know me.”

His eyes swept over her. “My eyes tell me all I need know.”

“Then know this, I will not share a husband with another. Go back to the Black Lodges and marry your Beautiful Meadow, for I will not go with you.”

His brow lifted as if seeing her rejection as a challenge. His eyes fixed upon her and she knew in that moment what it was to be hunted. She dropped her gathering bag and ran, darting in and out of the tree trunks and leaping over fallen logs. He gave her a head start. It was several moments before she heard the horse’s hooves pounding on the soft ground.

One moment she ran and the next her feet left the ground. His strong arm gripped her, pulling her up and over his lap. Now, tipped over his muscular thigh with her head down, she watched the terrain below her flash by until she grew dizzy. Skylark clung to his leg to keep from falling headlong from the saddle. He rested a hand on her backside and laughed.

Finally he slowed his horse. She struggled and succeeded only in rising to a seated position before him. His arms looped about her waist, pressing her hip to his middle.

Now that she was in his arms she felt the rush of excitement.

“Tell me that you do not wish me to touch you and I will set you down.”

He stroked her cheek and then his fingers glided over the bare skin at her neck. The sensation was delicious and she gasped. He blew in her ear and she had to catch her lower lip between her teeth to keep from groaning aloud.

His breath was sweet as he whispered, “I have an empty lodge. I have horses. I have led many successful raids and will be war chief one day.”

Night Storm knew he wanted this woman. He should have spoken to her at the gathering. He had not for two reasons. First, he’d let his friend fill his head with stories about her mother, the one who left her husband and his first wife to live with the heyoka of the Low River tribe. Skylark’s mother had remained with the heyoka even after she had received offers from many, including the medicine man, himself. Her mother had survived unaided by trading her quillwork for all they needed and kept her lodge for only her daughter and the man touched by the spirit of chaos until her death. The second reason he hesitated was that he did not know if he wanted a wife who spent half her time chasing after her heyoka father and the other half digging roots alone in the forest.

“Come with me willingly,” he said, whispering into her ear and thrilling as she trembled and fell against him. “I will provide for you. I will bring you the softest furs. You will never go hungry and I will keep you warm every night.”

Beautiful Meadow had made it clear that when she was his first wife she would like him to marry again as soon as possible. He had promised her a second wife. He had not promised to take either of the women Beautiful Meadow had suggested. She said she would miss her sisters, but she had not asked him to choose one of her sisters. His mother, Red Corn Woman, said it was because she was lazy. The women she wanted were hardworking, but one was doughy as a grub and the other had a face that resembled a stone hatchet.

This woman in his lap was not the sort of woman Beautiful Meadow had in mind. Beautiful, skilled and wild as a puma. And this medicine woman had a reputation for healing that had reached the Black Lodges.

But Skylark did not wish to share him. That made him even more tempted. But it was a problem because he had made a promise, given furs and horses for Beautiful Meadow. To withdraw his proposal would be a great dishonor. A woman could break a marriage. A man could not. Besides, he would need a woman to provide meals and keep his lodges repaired and to make the clothing. This woman in his arms was not that woman.

“You don’t want me,” she said.

“I want you very much. Too much.”

Truthfully he wanted this woman because of the challenge. None had taken her. None dared. But he dared. And he would make her his own. Gentle this wild mustang until she fed from his hand like the horse beneath them.

He enfolded her in his arms and brushed his mouth across her cheek. Her skin was softer than the velvet of a deer’s antlers. He took her lower lip between his teeth and sucked. She shuddered and pressed closer to him.

“I have watched you at the gatherings. You have power. Great power. You are respectful and loving to your aunt. But all say you do not stay put.”

“That will not change. I wander. It is my nature.”

“Wander as you will as long as you do not wander into another man’s arms.”

He wondered if he had found the one in his vision. The woman who stepped from the flash of lightning to join him in the forest? His desire for her was strong as a lightning strike.

“I have had a vision of a woman. I think you are she.”

She turned to him, lifting her chin to stare up at him. He lowered his lips to hers. She made a sound on an exhalation and then gave a hum of pleasure as he explored her mouth with his tongue. She tasted of mint. Finally he cradled her head against his chest and found her the perfect fit.

Her words were low, intimate, though she spoke not love words but words of warning. “Let me go before it is too late.”

He stroked her hair.

“Too late for what?” he asked.

Other men thought she was dangerous. But it was that danger that appealed. She was perfect for him. She simply needed convincing and he knew just how to do that. He glanced to the bed of thick, spongy moss and his body ached, pulsing with need.

Night Storm pressed Skylark tighter. He had been attracted by her face and figure. Intrigued by her skills as a healer. Now he wondered just how powerful she was.

He winced as the dull headache that had plagued him all morning changed to an expanding pain that now made his stomach churn. He sucked in a breath as the pain grew worse.

He looked to the heavens for some answer and saw instead the bright spring leaves of the birch trees above them, flashing like swimming fish against the blue sky. They swam and swam, coming closer.

His dog began barking again. But, unlike earlier, this was that high, frantic bark that he used when he was frightened. Night Storm told him to be quiet but Frost only barked louder.

“Night Storm? What is happening?” Her words seemed to come from far away, even though he held her in his arms.

He heard the humming that went on and on. He swayed as he smelled burning flesh. Night Storm slid from his horse. He could not see the woman in his arms because his vision dimmed and his hands began a tremor that rolled throughout his body like thunder.