Night Thunder's Bride: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 3

by Karen Kay

  “And leave you alone?”

  “I would hope that you would. Sometimes,” he said, “it is necessary that the woman escapes to safety while the man stays to fight. Women are very important in our village, since without a mother, a child has little chance to survive.”

  “But without a man to provide for them,” Rebecca argued, “a woman would find it hard to raise that child. Therefore, you are just as important to that child’s future as the woman and should have as much consideration.”

  She could see him shrug slightly as he continued to tread ahead of her. “The tribe would always ensure that a woman has food and clothing if her man is killed,” he said. “The woman and child would never go hungry, nor would they want for anything.”

  “Is that so?” she asked, not adding that in white society, the woman and child would have to provide for themselves in a world where only the men survived well; that the woman and child might not subsist at all.

  He asked, “Is it not this way for the white man, too?”

  Rebecca shrugged silently, knowing he wouldn’t see the gesture, yet unwilling to condemn her own society.

  “Besides,” he continued, “I have rattlesnake medicine, if we find we have need of it.”

  “Rattlesnake medicine?”

  “Aa, yes.”

  “You mean, medicine that will cure a bite?”

  “Aa, yes.”

  “There is no such thing, one has to dig and suck the poison out.”

  Night Thunder laughed. “I will not argue the point with you. Just know that I have the medicine with me if we should have cause to use it. I have seen it cure snakebite.”

  “But there is only one way to—”

  “Hush!” He suddenly halted and held up his hand for her silence. Rebecca almost ran into his back.

  Suddenly, though, he straightened up and turned all around him, scanning his environment.

  “What is wrong?”

  “Sh-h-h.”

  “What is it?”

  “A war party—four, maybe five or six.”

  “A war party? But I thought you said…I hear nothing.”

  “Do you know how to listen?”

  “I…Couldn’t it be the warriors from our own party?”

  “Traveling at night? This is Blackfoot country, we have no need to journey during the time when Old Woman must shine, but our enemies do.”

  “Old Woman?”

  “The favorite wife of the Sun. You call her the moon. Hush!” He held up his hand.

  She gulped. “What can we do?”

  “We must hide. I am not enough to stop them by myself, and there is no time to return to our camp. Quickly.”

  She hadn’t noticed it, but off to the side of the stream, down in the coulee, there were several dead cottonwood trees: one on its side, another with part of its trunk cut or worn out. Was that tree hollow? Night Thunder hurried her toward it as though it were.

  If it were hollow, she wondered, was it big enough to hide them? Even then, if it was, wasn’t it also possible that something else might have taken refuge in it? Some animal, perhaps?

  She had no time to ponder it. The tree had a large cavity, and Night Thunder gave the inside of it a cursory glance, placing her within it while he gazed out upon the countryside. Then, seeing her settled, and with one final scan of the horizon, Night Thunder slipped in beside her.

  The tree was barely big enough for the two of them, and of necessity they stood together, chest to chest, legs to legs, stomach to stomach. If she hadn’t known the feel of this man before, she certainly did now.

  Immediately the scent of rotten wood assailed her and something small and indefinable crawled up her arm. She gave a slight jump.

  Night Thunder’s arms tightened around her and he gave her a silencing look. He murmured, “You must not speak out no matter what happens, do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  He pulled her more closely into his arms—so close, she could hear the rapid beating of his heart, feel the warming touch of his breath against her ear. All at once, another fragrance stormed her senses, too: his scent, clean, fresh, undeniably male, perfumed with the sweat from his skin.

  This was too much, she realized, his presence too intoxicating, and it was more than she could do to remain still. She wiggled, but Night Thunder quickly brought her under control, his arms tightening around her as he gave her another warning look.

  Finally she heard it, the sounds of people—men—moving across the prairie. Dimly at first, but then with more and more clarity, they came toward them.

  How could Night Thunder have heard them before? Did he have some kind of sixth sense?

  She listened to the men talking and her heartbeat sped up to an incredible pace. She put her head against Night Thunder’s shoulder and hid her eyes, as though that action alone would shield her from harm. It was odd, too, because though she felt frightened, she also experienced a sense of safety: being secure, here with Night Thunder to protect her.

  The enemy was close now. She held her breath, afraid that even her breathing would be heard.

  Suddenly a moccasined foot came into view and she held back a gasp, barely. Night Thunder’s arms pressed around her and he glanced down at her, warning her again to silence.

  As she gazed up at Night Thunder, an Indian, painted fully in black and carrying spear, arrows, and knife, appeared in her view, his back toward them. She opened her mouth to scream, but at that same moment, Night Thunder’s lips suddenly closed over hers, silencing her.

  Perhaps it was because her senses were already heightened; perhaps, also, were Night Thunder’s. Whatever the cause, a minor explosion occurred within her.

  She felt like weeping. If she had found him irresistible before, she found him doubly enchanting now.

  He pulled back from her, away from the kiss—for only a moment—as though she had bitten him. He stared at her, there in their private world of rotted tree trunk, and nesting animals. Though it was too dark to see, she knew that if she could, she would witness shock within his eyes. It had to be. She felt it as well.

  The other Indian disappeared, almost as though she had dreamed him, and Night Thunder took her lips again with his, only this time his mouth plundered hers, much as man immemorial has done in claiming his bride. His tongue swept into her mouth, dipped, and tasted before he pulled back to trace the outline of her lips with the tip of his tongue…around and around, over and over, until neither of them could stand it and he fell again to ravaging her mouth.

  Had she groaned? She knew she shouldn’t. Yet she didn’t seem able to help herself.

  She could hear the talk of the enemy outside, but her fear evaporated as sensual excitement took hold of her. Night Thunder’s mouth made love to her—stimulating, strenuous love—and her body, pressed in closely to his, ached.

  In and out of her mouth, his tongue invaded her, over and over again, he tasting her, she savoring the sweet flavor of him. It was as though he would make up here and now for all he could not do for her physically, emotionally. She opened her mouth to the full insistence of his, too, and he took instant advantage of her acquiescence, his tongue raiding hers.

  She felt the clear evidence of his desire against her stomach, though she knew he would do nothing about it. He was too much the gentleman to take advantage.

  Still, she wiggled, his arms pulling her so closely to him, she might have melted into him.

  Minutes passed, or was it hours? She couldn’t be certain. She only knew the presence of his lips, kissing her on and on, taking her deeper and deeper into the realm of desire.

  She felt frustrated. She wanted more, much more. Dear Lord, she wanted him to make love to her.

  She almost wept with the knowledge. She couldn’t let him know, of course, and she mustn’t encourage him. He was too foreign to her; foreign, aye, but so dear.

  Suddenly, in this rustic, simple place, at this time, the realization came to her: she had deep, involved feelings for thi
s man. Did she love him? Was that what this was?

  Praise the Lord, it might be; she might actually love him.

  She inwardly moaned. What was she to do about it, if it were true? They held such entirely different beliefs, came from completely different cultures—and, she groaned, he intended to have two wives.

  He broke off the kiss at last and rubbed his cheek over hers, his lips pressing tiny kisses against her ear. He whispered, “Prepare yourself, for we will not live beyond this evening, I think.”

  “No.”

  “Sh-h-h. Speak not so loud.”

  “They have done nothing to us,” she whispered urgently. “Maybe they do not know we are here.”

  “Saa, no. Know this, though they have not yet become aware of us, if we do not escape this evening and soon, they will find our trail. Because Old Woman, the moon, is dim this night, they have not yet discovered us. But know this, too: come morning they will see our trail, and they will seek us out and kill us, if they can.”

  She sucked in her breath and whispered back, “Is there nothing we can do?”

  He nodded briefly. “If they do not discover us, we can wait until they sleep and then try to slip away. Perhaps we could cover our trail well enough, or maybe we would obtain sufficient lead that we could find our own camp and get reinforcement against them. But we can do nothing now; we must wait.”

  Rebecca nodded.

  He then murmured against her ear, “I want you.”

  Her stomach plunged, as though it might drop to her feet, but she could only nod an acknowledgment, her voice not working.

  “I should not, but I do. Know this, too,” he said, his breath warm against her. “Should we not see the morrow, know that I will take your image with me to the Sand Hills, where I will keep you alive within me always.”

  “You…you would?”

  “Aa, yes. I have feelings for you, my reluctant captive. A deep, strong passion.”

  “Then, do you…you love me?”

  He paused and it seemed he might answer, but at that same moment a rustling movement came from outside and he whispered, “Sh-h-h. I can say nothing more about it now.”

  But she wanted to know more—now.

  “Night Thunder?”

  “Sh-h-h.”

  “Night Thunder, I wouldn’t want tomorrow to come with us departed from it, and you never to know what’s in my heart, or me not to know what’s in yours.”

  He remained silent, though his regard of her became intent.

  She said, “I want you, too.”

  His expression didn’t change, though when he spoke, his whisper was as soft as a caress as he said, “Do not say this if you do not truly mean it.”

  “I mean it.”

  His look at her was full of promise as he said, “I would have made you a good husband.”

  “I know you would have…if it weren’t for…”

  He seemed to know what she had been about to say, for he uttered, “I could not dishonor a pledge that was made by my parents before I was even of an age to come to my senses. Know that if I had the power to change my life, if it meant being able to keep you, I would do so.”

  “But you cannot?”

  He shook his head. “Never.”

  “And you do not believe that we will come through this alive?”

  “We are only two and they are six warriors. In a fight, I would die and you would be captured. Know this.” He reached down and took her hand, placing it against his chest. “You have taken and I have given you my heart, all that I am. From now, until Sun no longer shines, you will be a part of me here.”

  “Aa,” she said, the Blackfoot word coming easily to her, “aye, a part of you.” Their gazes lingered over each other there in the dark, touching one another, each one promising the other an untold wealth of tenderness.

  Then he kissed her. Tenderly at first, as soft a touch as love’s first embrace, but soon with more urgency.

  His tongue slipped into and out of her mouth as she listened to the sounds outside, their bodies rubbing against each other to the beat of a drum, the warriors outside beginning to pound on it. She closed her eyes, savoring the feel of him against her, and she realized that here and now, inside this hollow tree trunk, she had finally given her heart, her very soul, to the one man who had so many times proved himself her hero.

  “Love me, Night Thunder,” she murmured against his lips, letting him kiss her cheeks, her neck, her breasts. “Don’t let tomorrow come without me ever knowing the sweetness of your full caress. Please, Dear God, leave me with something of you to remember.”

  For several heart-stopping moments Night Thunder did nothing more than stare down at her, and she began to worry that she had spoken out of turn. But then, all at once, passion erupted in him and he set up her up against the side of their hollowed-out tree trunk, pushing up her skirts at the same time as his lips took possession of hers.

  He pulled her upward, wrapping her legs around his waist. “This is not the time and place to accustom you to the feel of me. Be certain it is what you want, for it will be hard on you, I think.”

  “I want this, Night Thunder.”

  It was all the encouragement he needed. His lips sought out hers, while his fingers touched her legs, the insides of her thighs, her womanhood.

  She gasped, the intimacy proving almost too much for her.

  But he hadn’t finished with her. His fingers found the core of her fervor, where she discovered she had become embarrassingly wet.

  “Rebecca, sweet captive, your body is ready for me. Are you certain?”

  “I want you, Night Thunder.”

  His eyes held hers, and he swallowed with what appeared to be some difficulty. But with no more words, he drew aside his breechcloth, his manhood, swollen and hard, suddenly released against her.

  She couldn’t see the whole of him, she could only feel him against that most private area, but it didn’t matter. She could still rejoice in the power she felt she held over him.

  “You must not scream,” he cautioned her, “for it will hurt at first. But the pain should swiftly leave you. Promise?”

  She nodded, and he entered her, not cautiously, as she felt he might have liked. There was no time for niceties. They had gone beyond all that. He wanted her. She wanted him. And danger had made them hungry.

  His lips caught her gasp, his arms pulling her tightly against him, and he ceased all movement, letting her become accustomed to the feel of him.

  But slowly, he began to move inside her. Lingeringly, cautiously at first, until neither of them could stand it any longer, and, as though by mutual agreement, they began to push against each other, he thrusting, she taking, both seeking the thrill of romance, in the age-old dance of love. She began to move with him as a feeling she could never find words to describe began to build within her, centering where their bodies were joined. Was it supposed to be this way?

  He pulled his head slightly away from her, his breath raggedly urgent against her, his gaze steadily on her as he thrust into her over and over again.

  Desire, passion burned there in the depths of his eyes…and love, too. Watching him, smiling at him, Rebecca struggled against him with more and more vigor, seeking a release she had no knowledge of, yet sought instinctively.

  Then it came. It came with an explosion of the senses, it came without her knowledge of what to expect. It came because of her love for him. Aye, that was it, and she moaned against him with the secure knowledge. Love. She did love him.

  His lips suddenly captured hers, absorbing the inadvertent sound of her rapture, and within seconds, she felt the bounds of his reserve falter and crash as he thrust even more urgently against her, though he made no sound.

  He drove inside her over and over, his pleasure seemingly going on and on, as though it might never end. And she relished in his passion, in what she was certain was his love.

  But at last he shuddered and brought his forehead against hers, as he whispered, “Our passio
n for one another has made this act more pleasurable than I have ever known it could be.” He smiled before he added, “Know this, sweet captive. Always,” he murmured the word in her ear, “you will be in my heart. Always.”

  And with his body slightly swollen and so very pleasantly joined with hers, she murmured, “Always.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Kyai-yo, what was my father’s decision?” The young Indian girl kept her sights carefully centered upon her lap, looking over the beaded work she had finished on a new set of moccasins. She noticed one blue bead out of place and focused her attention on it as she awaited a response.

  “What could he say, nitana, my daughter? Know you the honor that binds him?”

  The young Indian maiden’s stomach dropped as the import of her mother’s words hit her. She needed to hear the thing said, however, and so she asked, “What then? Did he send Singing Bull away?”

  “He had to. You know that he had to.”

  The young girl fought to keep her composure. She knew her lower lip trembled and so she bit it, in order that she keep her dignity. She loved her parents, had wallowed in their affection and their understanding for all her life. She would not—could not—go against them. Not even when her heart demanded that she do just that.

  She also could not rebel against tradition. Not without bringing great shame to her family.

  But oh, how her heart hungered for the touch of this one who had approached her father for the honor of her hand.

  Still…

  Was this it, then? Was this thing to be as she had feared?

  The girl tried to swallow, but her throat refused to work and it was all she could do to hold back a sob.

  Her mother’s arm went around her, the older woman’s unspoken sympathy practically the girl’s undoing, but the young woman held onto her pride and forced herself to display none of her inner struggle. She would never let her parents know the utter distress their decision forced upon her. Such would serve to make them feel guilty. After all, weren’t they acting in the only honorable way? She couldn’t ask her parents to be less than they were.