Whitney glanced from the smoke of her cigarette to Eagle, who had come upon her with his usual irritating silence. A smart retort died in her throat as she stared at him.
He was still clad in the richly colorful Seminole shirt, but he had added to his native costume. His dark head was adorned by a turban of white egret feathers and a warlike band of silver encircled his neck. He had shed his jeans for the brief “skirt” of the kind the Seminoles wore hundreds of years ago, and his high boots were now of buckskin. A knife was strapped to one thigh, and he carried a large, lethal-looking bow, while arrow points peeked over his shoulder. Surely, Whitney decided, Osceola himself had never looked so awe inspiring and fearsome when he arrogantly turned down any terms of peace. Through the decades Eagle had inherited the structure and aura of relentless pride, of independence, of stubborn, ruthless willpower. The bright blue of his eyes and the gauntness of his high-boned face gave conclusive evidence of his white heritage, but that merely seemed to accentuate the ruggedness of his chosen native stance.
“You might want to shut your mouth,” he suggested blandly, a spark of humor discernible in the wry twist of his lips. “You could trap a mosquito if you’re not careful.”
Whitney snapped her mouth shut. “You look … uh … you look …”
“Barbaric?”
Whitney shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “Regal. Like a chief. Are you a chief?”
“No,” he replied, joining her on the stump. “We don’t have chiefs these days. We have council members.”
Speaking her thoughts aloud, Whitney continued. “Well, you do look just like I picture Osceola to have looked.”
Eagle laughed aloud easily, but Whitney felt comfortable with the pleasant sound. Reaching over his shoulder into the leather satchel that held his arrows, he said easily, “Here—I brought you your cigarettes.”
“Thanks,” Whitney replied sardonically. “I just smoked one.” Then, realizing she might be put on another “cold turkey” spell, she accepted the pack from him and lit up. He started to laugh again and she tweaked an inquiring brow at him.
“You look like one of those feminist cigarette ads! Old-fashioned dress from head to toe, hiding away in the bushes to smoke!”
“Aren’t you glad I’m not a real women’s libber? I’d never be in these woods!”
His light banter ceased suddenly and he took her chin gently in his hand. The timbre of his voice was soft and low. “What are you, Whitney? What are you really?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied, annoyed that her answer warbled nervously. Their relationship was such a strange one. It was business between them, then hostility, then passion and chemistry. But passion was one thing in the throes of ecstasy in his arms; friendship was another. She was terrified to come too close, to put demands on an intimacy that he had probably shared before yet to her was … skyrockets.
He didn’t release her chin, and his next question was blunt and audacious. “Were you divorced because of the sex problem? Don’t start blushing—after last night it’s a little late for secrets or hedging with me.”
Whitney managed to extract her chin on the pretense of taking a drag of her cigarette. Staring straight ahead of her, she honestly replied, “No. I didn’t even realize at the time that I was missing anything. We just made each other miserable. I wanted to work; Gerry wanted a wife who was always home looking pretty. He wouldn’t force me to quit, and I couldn’t volunteer. One day I just sat down and told him that what we were doing was ridiculous. We were—and are—friends. We wanted different things, that’s all.”
The tiny alcove seemed very hushed when she finished speaking. Eagle eventually asked, “And what is it that you want?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Whitney answered truthfully. “To be respected, I suppose. To have my opinions matter. To care deeply …” She crushed her cigarette, very carefully grinding it into the dirt. “What do you want out of life?”
“Probably the very same things,” he answered her levelly, his blue eyes warmly sincere for the moment. “I think we all do.”
He stood abruptly, and the close intimacy was broken. “Come, Whitney. Your dugout awaits.”
Whitney rose obediently and placed her hand in his outstretched one. They were both guarded again, and yet something more had been forged between them than the chemistry that had promised that they would be lovers just as surely as the sun would rise.
But, Whitney thought wryly, just as surely as that sun would rise, the moon would follow. They were both willful, stubborn and demanding. They would love, but would they hate with equal depth and ferocity?
As the dugout trailed through the marshy land to take them to the Green Corn Dance, Eagle explained something of the festival. The majority of the Miccosukees in Florida would attend, even those living in more northern parts of the state. Although the Muskogee or Cow Creek Seminoles held their own dance, many of them would also come. Many ancient customs would be adhered to, and many men, who usually wore jeans these days, would dress in tribal costume. The Indians hunted with shotguns; the bow and arrows he carried were for games, although they were not a competitive people. The idea of a contest was not to win but to excel as far as one could for one’s own benefit and satisfaction. The good of the family and tribe was the main consideration for all Seminoles. “Actually,” Eagle said with a grin, “we don’t call ourselves Seminoles; in Muskogee we are Istichatee, in Miccosukee, we are Yakitisee. Both terms mean ‘red people.’”
“I hope I remember all this!” Whitney said, watching the strong play of muscles in his arms as he unerringly guided the dugout canoe that carried the two of them and Morning Dew with fixed precision through what appeared to be endless miles of identical marshland. “And I do hope that the venerable J. E. Stewart is impressed!”
If she hadn’t been preoccupied with her own thoughts, Whitney might have noticed that Eagle grimaced ruefully. As it was, she frowned and continued in the same vein. “Although I’m still at a loss as to what I should be understanding. From what I’ve learned, the Indians do live hard lives! Think how much easier life could be for your grandmother if she had a washing machine and electricity and—”
“Have you been unhappy, Whitney?”
The question interrupted her with a hushed, sensual quality. Blushing, Whitney trailed a hand over the top of the water and whispered, “No.” Then she raised her eyes to his with timid mischief. “But you can be pushy at times! Argumentative and demanding!”
He smiled rakishly in return. “That’s right. When one deals with a dedicated reformer, one must be prepared to demand.”
Before Whitney could think of a suitable reply, Eagle pointed over her shoulder with a paddle. “Ceremony grounds.”
Ceremony grounds! Whitney groaned, twisting to see the mass activity. There had to be close to a thousand Indians. A faint, tremulous fear edged over her.
Fortunately she didn’t have long to dwell on her sense of uneasiness. The gathering was a social occasion, and they were shortly bustling through crowds with greetings being called all around them. Makeshift chickees had been arranged by each family, and along with the other Eagles, they were soon settling into their clan sector. Whitney was turned over to Morning Dew for the afternoon, since Eagle was called upon to join with his male peers for certain functions. Whitney rather sullenly let it be known that she didn’t particularly approve of such sexism.
“Don’t pout!” Eagle said with a laugh. “Our women run the domestic activities—heredity is matrilineal. It has only been in the last century that we have begun to take our fathers’ names—and that because of white influence.” Suddenly he grasped her tightly to him and whispered, “And that, darling, is why it shall be to my mother’s ancestral home that I bring my bride this evening for her nuptials.”
His voice held threat; it held promise. A quivering of anticipation made Whitney loath to move her face from the harbor of his chest. He taunted her, and yet he enthralled her. She
should be denying the hypocrisy of the farce, but she couldn’t. She was waiting for the night and a Miccosukee blessing of their strange union.
It wasn’t long in coming. Morning Dew spent the afternoon entertaining various of her women friends. Some of the conversations were in the Miccosukee tongue, with Morning Dew translating for Whitney, and she was affectionately drawn into the circle of women who blatantly studied her, but did it with such warmth, interest and sincerity that she could feel no resentment. It was touching to see the pride Morning Dew exhibited in her, heartwarming and painful. But Whitney was obsessed by the evening; she couldn’t and wouldn’t put a stop to the events that were due to occur. She had been swept into a strange dream from which she had no desire to awaken.
Then the sun made its slow descent into the horizon. Whitney, bathed and dressed, her hair carefully braided, was led to the center of the celebration, where a massive bonfire burned. Men and women were joining by the fire, and as Whitney watched, they began a dance. The music of a flute could be heard accompanying a slow chant, which was joined by the rattle of shells and the pulsations of drumbeats upon various devices.
Eagle, clad in a multitude of feathers that turbaned around his head, was among the dancers. For a moment his eyes locked with hers through the mystical orange glow of the firelight. They were brilliant, triumphant, exultant—and a shade devilish and wild. An ember of fear raged through Whitney, interrupting the trancelike quality of the dream she lived. What was she getting into? Three days ago the man staring at her with victorious possession had been unknown to her.
Eagle’s view of her was whipped away as the dance increased in tempo, and Whitney was back in her trance. She didn’t care. Past and future held no meaning. Whoever or whatever he was didn’t matter. She wanted him with pure and unadulterated yearning and love. The trappings of the man meant nothing—he was the essence of all she had ever sought and desired in a male—a lover, a provider, a mate.
The dance ended. Suddenly Whitney became part of the activities—the main part. She was standing before the elders of the tribe and the councilmen and her tongue was ungluing to form alien syllables in repetition. Eagle was beside her; she was his. It was over, yet still the bonfire raged and the ancient hypnotism of the ritual remained. The dream would continue.
Only one incident occurred to remind her that she was still residing in the twentieth century. She was about to be led away for her “honeymoon” night when the head of the council, a weathered and stately old Indian man, kissed her cheek in a very Anglo fashion.
“Congratulations, my dear,” he told her, his English enunciated in a clear, only slightly accented voice. “I hope you’ll be very happy.”
But Whitney had no chance to muse over his perfect use of her own language. She was taken to a secluded chickee in the shelter of warm, welcoming pines. She was left standing, a beautiful young bride, awaiting her husband, her noble warrior man.
CHAPTER SIX
SHE STOOD IN ETHEREAL splendor as he approached, a vision of spectral loveliness. The moonlight danced upon the dark waves of her hair, which had been loosened to form a glorious cloak around her shoulders. She was still, perfectly still, as if she didn’t even breathe, and the glow upon her skin gave it the cast of silken cream alabaster. In the darkness her eyes were prisms of jade, bright and liquid against the whiteness of her face.
She didn’t see him on the path, Eagle knew, and he allowed himself the luxury of simply watching her. He had no desire to rush anything. In his heart he would be claiming his bride, and despite all that he knew, all that had come before, she was defenseless and as tender as a trusting doe as she waited.
Her eyes came to his and he saw that they were tremulous, that a faint shivering held her body in its grip. He stared at her a moment longer, then slowly walked to her, his eyes never leaving hers. He moved like a panther in the night, his sleek muscles fluid, his steps sure. The passion that would be culminated had begun with that first searing eye contact, which had locked them together in a union beyond description but known to man since the beginning of time.
Eagle leaped to the platform with a muffled thump and stood just inches from her, inhaling the soft perfume of her femininity, absorbing the radiating warmth of her nearness. Tonight there was no need to talk. She was frightened, but willing and eager. It was all still new. Her eyes told everything.
His fingers trembled slightly as he moved them to unfasten the strings of the gown she wore. It fell to her feet in a soft rustle, and he drank in the beauty of her nakedness slowly with his eyes, worshipping her as he might a statue of the finest marble. But she wasn’t marble, she was flesh and blood and her quivering form cried out to be touched as her eyes met his again with mute pleading.
Still, he could not rush. He brought his hands to her shoulders, slowly down the soft length of her arms, along the exquisite contours of her delicately molded back. His lips claimed hers, slowly, seductively, savoring each new depth of the warmth of her moist mouth. Heat grew within him, embering, flaring, yet he kept it within rigid control. His kisses blazed new trails from her mouth, down the swanlike length of her neck, onward across her breasts to tease, torment and demand upon the hard rosy peaks that rose instinctively to his touch against the firm roundness that arched into his hands. A famished man, his head swimming, he went on to thirst and thirst, tasting the taut flesh of her rib cage, the tiny indentation of her navel, the sweet, sweet skin of her abdomen and the soft skin that lurked below hiding all that was his. And all the while that he enticed, teased and cajoled, his own desire intensified like a tornado, spinning, whipping, spiraling as her quivers became sensuous undulations and her silence a series of moans and sighs that pleaded and demanded in return.
Then it was she who became the aggressor. No longer able to stand, she fell to her knees and buried herself against him. Their fingers worked together to cast aside his clothing, and she was drinking of his smooth, tight flesh, relishing the spasm of muscles beneath her lips and hands, drawing the same pleasure as he from the wanton excitement she elicited. She couldn’t touch him, feel him, taste the fine salt of his body enough … nor could she satiate the appetite that raged like a bonfire, gnawing, creating a hunger as demanding and unquenchable as his.
A hoarse cry rumbled in the depth of his powerful chest, and the mute satisfaction of a woman who has equally seduced a man in loving torment mingled naturally into Whitney’s primal level of ecstasy, spurring her still further into the realm of sensuous magic. Then it was he, who commanded again, he who navigated her writhing body, he who took her with a rough urgency that propelled them into shock wave after shock wave of ceaseless sweet pleasure until the unbearable exploded into a high of delicious fulfillment so wonderful that they floated in a land where time stood still until the crest washed back in a wave of complete, giving satisfaction.
They were silent again in the aftermath of the incredible maelstrom of their lovemaking. It wasn’t a time to talk, Whitney thought dreamily, feeling the breadth of his chest expanding and contracting beneath the light touch of her slender fingers. It was a time to cherish sensations, to mindlessly enjoy all that had transpired and simply hold on to the beauty. With her head upon his shoulder, her arm casually slung over him, her body melded against his, she gave in to her euphoria and total physical and mental exhaustion. A final shudder rippled its way through her limbs; a long sigh of happiness whistled softly through her lips. She slept, in the peace and security that would envelope her wherever this man might be.
Eagle stared briefly at the moonglow through the trees. He was thinking about the future and the woman who was confidently coiled to his length—so fragile, so fine and yet so strong. And, for reasons of her own, she trusted him. He had taught her, but it was he, the teacher, who knew just how special and precious the ties that bound them were. He glanced tenderly at the face nestled in his shoulder. Her dark lashes swept her cheeks in sleep and her lips were prettily curved, even at rest. Tomorrow, he told himself.
Tomorrow he would talk to her; he would explain what he had done. In that night he had learned the true meaning of his fanatical desire to possess her completely, and he was once more convinced that he would never let her go. Closing his eyes, he felt the perfect warmth of his discovery and the age-old, masculine, triumphant comfort of having his beautiful woman wedged to his strength. He slept, too, his lips curved into a smile with the satisfaction that she had come to him first in a bed in the woods.
It was the morning song of a chorus of birds that woke Whitney, a symphony that rang sweetly in the dew damp air. She listened lazily for a moment without opening her eyes, luxuriating in the fresh scent and feel of the new day—and in the contentment of languorous satiation that had stayed with her through the night. She was experiencing a rush of womanly wonder at the beauty of the world, awed that Eagle was beside her still, his male strength enveloping her fragility …
He stirred beside her, and his eyes were sensuously heavy lidded as they met hers. In the night they had shifted, and he was leaning over her, his leg thrown casually over hers, his arm gently entrapping her breasts. He kissed her lips lightly, then reverently he kissed the tender peak of each mound beneath his arm’s captivity. He smiled, and Whitney gently drew her knuckles over his cheek, smiling in return.
Something rustled in the bushes, and a look of alarm crossed Whitney’s face. She automatically reached for the coverings, but his imprisoning arm held her firm.
“Just the birds,” he murmured, “just the birds, my sweet.” He chuckled and released her reluctantly to stand and rustle through their belongings. Whitney relaxed and narrowed her eyes to watch him through covert slits. He was incredible, she thought with smug, feminine satisfaction. Incredibly powerful, incredibly superb, incredibly masculine. It was marvelous just to watch the blending of sinewed muscles and tendons as he moved near, unconscious of the nakedness that was natural when he was with her.
He found a pair of briefs and jeans and stepped into them, pausing only for a second to glance at her with hesitant longing as she lay curled like a kitten near his feet, enticingly half covered. But the commotion of the birds was a warning that daybreak had come and a scurry of activity would shortly begin. Willpower snapped him from his enchanted reverie, and he pulled up the zipper of his snug jeans. “Let’s take a walk,” he suggested huskily.
Tender Taming Page 10