Small Bird closed her eyes. Swift Foot’s clan had lost many more warriors, had suffered more injury. Yet the loss of a child… Grief vibrated through her, twisting and merging with guilt until her mind cried out for relief. But there was none to be had. Outside the walls of the tipi, the crying and wailing over the dead continued. There also came voices, shouts of anger and rage. But what stabbed her most deeply was the crying of small children. They were frightened at the storm of emotion raging around the camp, and Small Bird understood, for it was unlike anything she herself had ever experienced.
No, that wasn’t true. Deep inside, Small Bird recalled how frightened she’d been at the age of three during the first Miniconjou attack. She remembered hiding from what she hadn’t understood, and recalled her silent sobs.
Fighting those same nightmares all over again, Small Bird longed to have Swift Foot comfort her as he had done so long ago. He’d found her, small child she’d been, saved her. He’d offered comfort to her. And that day, he had planted the seed of love deep in her heart and mind.
Staring toward the tipi’s closed door, she wondered where her husband would be now. Offering aid to others and keeping the tribe from falling apart, no doubt.
Slowly rocking back and forth, rubbing her cheek on top of her mother’s head, Small Bird thought of the future. It was terrifying. She’d been so sure that she knew what would occur, so sure that she knew the truth. She’d believed so strongly that between herself and Swift Foot, they’d achieve peace. But now they wouldn’t.
How full of herself she must have seemed. Especially to her brother. Small Bird took a deep breath, striving to keep her fear and guilt from making her heart pound out of control. Lone Warrior had been right. This morning she’d been so sure of herself. Now she wasn’t sure of anything. Even one life extinguished in this bitter feud was too many for her people, and now, between their combined clans, the number of dead, maimed and injured took her breath away. Hope and the belief that she could make a difference dimmed with the dying fire. After all, what could one woman do?
Turning her head, she stared at the body of her father. It lay so still on the pallet, covered with furs, that she could almost believe he merely slept. A fresh wave of tears trailed down her cheeks from the corners of her eyes.
Father, she cried out in her mind. You believed in this union. You wanted it. But it took your life. Will it take my mother’s? My brother’s?
There was no question; if a way to end this war was not found, it would surely take Swift Foot’s life and her own as well. She now believed her brother regarding that. Had the enemy been able to reach their camp, many innocent women and children would have died as well—the same way Charging Bull had lost his wife, and Swift Foot his parents.
Small Bird thought of the child she hoped she’d one day have. Would she give birth to a new life just to die herself? It hurt unbearably to think that any child could be left without parents to face life, hunted by their enemy—as Swift Foot had been.
As if a child already grew inside her, she covered her stomach with one hand. “No,” she mouthed against her mother’s head. Yellow Robe had finally fallen into an exhausted slumber.
“I will not allow it,” she continued, promising herself. “This will end. Somehow it will end, and my child will never know this pain and fear.”
As she sat there, her resolve grew. At last, Moon Fire’s mother entered the tipi, and Small Bird glanced up.
“Go, child. I will remain with my sister this night,” the woman said. “You have a husband now to tend.”
Small Bird eased her mother down, then stood up and headed for the door. As she left the tipi she’d never sleep in again—her family’s—part of her resisted, but suddenly she needed to find her husband and make sure he was all right. He too had suffered and needed comfort. And she wanted to give that to him. She had a different family now.
Not once as she hurried back to the hastily constructed dwelling did she consider not going to him. Swift Foot belonged to her as surely as she belonged to him. They were tied. Bound together forever, as they were meant to be.
Entering, she found their tipi dark and cold. Of her husband there was no sign. Running out of the tent, she hurried through camp. From nearly every tipi came the hushed voices of wives caring for and fussing over their mates—or the gut-wrenching sobs of the grief-stricken. Small Bird knew such lamenting would continue for many days.
Nearby, a crying woman rushed to a tipi, calling out for the woman inside, begging for the woman’s help with her husband’s injuries. Small Bird watched as the two headed off; then she resumed her search for Swift Foot.
As she walked, she avoided the part of camp where her cousin and Matoluta mourned the loss of their firstborn. Men passed her, their features stoic but their shoulders bowed. Off to the left, several of the dead had been laid out. Staring up at the sky, Small Bird saw the stars blur into one bright glare. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she moved slowly, seeking her husband’s form among the shadowy figures. He was not there.
Recalling the profound desolation in Swift Foot’s eyes, Small Bird suddenly suspected her husband had gone off alone. She turned down toward the stream. The low conversation of several warriors to her left, talking about the battle, caught her attention.
She didn’t recognize her husband’s voice among them, and instinct told her he wouldn’t be. She wasn’t sure how she knew this, except that in all her years of observing him, and in all the time she’d spent this past week watching him closely so she’d have some idea of what manner of man he had be come, she’d noticed that though he seemed a part of everything going on in camp, he also seemed alone. That sense of solitude in him had touched her heart.
Following the line of trees away from the voices, she’d just about given up on finding her husband when she spotted a lone figure standing in the middle of the rushing stream. Low, guttural chants drew her closer. She recognized Swift Foot’s voice; the despair in it snagged her heart and touched her. Mesmerized by both the sight and the sound, she crept nearer.
Bathed by the silvery glow of moon and stars, her husband’s hair hung wetly over each shoulder. His face was tipped to the night sky, and his arms were outstretched. He turned in a slow circle. The pain etched on his face matched the sorrow in his voice as he begged for the spirits to give him wisdom and strength. He then begged for healing for his people.
A lump formed in Small Bird’s throat. Though Swift Foot had tried to hide his emotions before, she’d already seen the depth of feeling inside him: first in the heat of his eyes during their wedding dance, then after, when she’d felt his passion and desire during their kiss—a kiss that seemed to have taken place a lifetime ago.
Moving silently among the brittle brush, thick bushes and trees lining the bank of the stream, Small Bird couldn’t take her eyes off her husband.
Leave him, a small voice whispered. He needs to be alone.
No! How could she leave him? He needed comfort.
He needed her.
As she needed him.
Staring at the sleek beauty of his body, Small Bird needed him in every way. Earlier he’d given her a glimpse and taste of the passion between a man and a woman; right now she felt it rise again inside her. She felt torn between her need for him and the need to restrain herself. How could she be feeling carnal desires at such a time? She should be ashamed of herself. But her body couldn’t help responding to the sight of him.
Her gaze scanned his upper body. His wet chest gleamed in the moonlight, each thick muscle fully defined. Her fingers crept up and over her own tunic to the soft swells of her breasts. She remembered the hard wall of his chest against them when he’d rested his body over hers.
She moved her left hand up, felt the sudden hammering of her heart. Her right hand touched the spot on her right breast where his heart had pounded. She longed to wade into the water, to rest her palms on his shoulders and dig her fingers into the hard ridge of his shoulder muscles. She wanted
to skim her hands down over his massive chest and the taut plane of his flat, hard abdomen. Her gaze dropped to the water lapping against him, hiding that part of him she’d felt grow and harden against her.
Her chest tightened, her breath caught in her throat and her palms grew moist. She slid them down the sides of her leggings to dry them.
Reflected light from the moon and stars rippled in the water that encircled his body as he continued to move in a circle. When he turned his back to her, she tried to take control of her desire, but that wide expanse of flesh stirred Small Bird as well. His long hair trailed downward, leading her gaze along the curved indent of his spine and farther, to the water hiding the swell of his buttocks.
He continued to turn, and her gaze went to his face. The anguish written there made Small Bird take a step back. She was intruding. This was a private moment, very personal, very emotional. Few men would want witnesses to such a display of pain and emotion. Especially the proud man she knew her husband to be. But the lines of pain etched around his mouth, and the silent prayers he mouthed, kept her from leaving.
As if he felt her eyes upon him, Swift Foot suddenly dropped his arms and stared into the shadows where she stood. He didn’t speak, but Small Bird knew he sensed her presence.
Her heart pounded. Fearing his rejection, she bravely left the shadows and walked down the gentle slope of the bank to stop just shy of the waterline. For long moments neither spoke. Finally Swift Foot broke the silence.
“I will seek revenge so that your father will not be forced to roam the shadows of this land. Our enemies will pay.” His voice held a promise, determination, and the need to prove himself worthy.
Small Bird frowned at the last thought. This man had no need to prove himself to anyone. Or did he? She regarded her husband with a steady gaze and sought the truth. Perhaps he, most of all, would feel a great need to prove himself. For a chief, he was young. Swift Foot had not experienced life to the same extent as most men who became great leaders. Add to that the merging of their two tribes, and the attack that had resulted in the loss of many lives, and Small Bird understood her husband’s need for vengeance.
She sighed. Revenge meant more bloodshed on both sides. Yet the spirit of her father could not rest until avenged. In his ghostly form he’d roam the shadows of the maka, unable to journey to the spirit world. Staring at Swift Foot, Small Bird knew her husband must honor her father.
Yet the killing had to stop. If he killed on her father’s behalf, then the enemy would retaliate. In a vicious circle, the killing would never cease.
“This war must end,” she said softly, stepping closer, ignoring the squishy mud of the stream beneath her feet. “This killing, these battles over something that happened before your birth, must be put to rest.”
Swift Foot waded closer, then stopped. “It will never end,” he said, his voice harsh with bitterness. “Talks of peace with our enemy have proven a waste of time.”
Trying not to notice how the water lapped gently against her husband’s hips, Small Bird forced her gaze back to his face. “There has to be a way. If not, we will all be destroyed.”
Swift Foot smacked the water with the flat of his hand. “You do not speak anything I do not already know.” He pushed forward, moving toward her, his body revealed in splendid gleaming nakedness.
Turning slightly out of respect and a sudden maidenly shyness, Small Bird refused to be silenced. “Then we must think of other solutions. There has to be a way to atone for the past that does not involve bloodshed.”
“There is.”
His whispered words, filled with sorrow and conviction, brought tears to Small Bird’s eyes and a lump to her throat. “How?” The very way he’d spoken made her heart skip a beat.
Swift Foot shook himself. He turned his back to her, his wide shoulders flexing as he did. “It is not your concern,” he replied. His voice was harsh, its tone warning Small Bird that he had no more to say on the matter.
He walked up the riverbank to pick up a clean breechclout and fasten it around himself.
Small Bird narrowed her eyes then stalked over to him. She moved around him until he was forced to acknowledge her presence. “You are wrong, my husband,” she said. “It is as much my concern as yours. Your people are now my people. We are all at risk. Our children are at risk.”
Swift Foot recoiled as if Small Bird had physically struck him. “There will not be children,” he said in a snarl. “Not ours.”
Small Bird’s words brought back demons: the loneliness of his childhood, the regrets of a small boy who understood why his parents had died, and the sadness of a man who knew that he posed a risk to everyone around him.
He strode away from Small Bird. Earlier, with the storm bursting around them, with passion exploding between them, he’d almost forgotten his vow not to bed his wife. He’d decided long ago never to have children, because he refused to put any child through what he’d suffered. And there was no question that his own children would be caught up in this war.
Of course, he’d also once vowed to never marry; a hunted man had no business taking a wife. But while that decision had been taken from him, this one would not. He might not have been able to control his marital obligations, but bringing a child into this violent world was entirely within his power. Even if the making of such a child would bring him some pleasure. Looking into Small Bird’s dark eyes, he acknowledged that there would be great joy in bedding her. But that was precisely why he could not.
He turned to leave, heading not back toward camp and his tipi, but away. Away from his wife and any temptation of claiming her as his own.
Small Bird followed and grabbed his arm. “I am your wife. You may not have wished for a wife, but you now have one. And as my husband, your life is now my concern.” She paused, her chest heaving. “We are man and wife.”
“You do not need to remind me of that fact,” was all he said. He raked his eyes over her.
She tipped her chin up defiantly. “Then why do you say the future of our people is none of my concern? What affects one affects both. As your wife, I can help you. I can help us.”
“I have no interest in what you have to say.” Swift Foot tried to look away and appear unmoved, but the wild fury in her eyes, the stubborn set of her mouth, drew him. The strength of her resolve made him burn with desire. Oh, how this dark beauty was different from the blond and timid Emily!
“I will have my say,” his wife demanded. “I am also entitled to walk at your side. It is my duty and my desire to take care of you, to tend your wounds and ease your pain.” Her voice softened. “Please, Swift Foot. Let me be your wife! Let me take care of you.”
Swift Foot was overcome with emotion: rage at her demands and admiration for her strength. He advanced on her and took her in his arms. Her eyes glinted more brightly than the stars overhead.
“You wish to be my wife?” he asked.
She glared at him. “I am your wife.”
“So you are.” Swift Foot pulled her hard against him.
Small Bird opened her mouth to protest his rough handling, but he savagely brought his mouth down on hers. He would show her what she was requesting.
The kiss was filled with the intensity of the earlier storm. Violence poured between them. Small Bird took his fury, though, swallowed it and gave it back in the form of love. Understanding and compassion seemed to radiate from her—as well as a hunger he could taste.
Her mouth moved with his. It pressed back hard against his lips, bit when he bit. His tongue stormed her mouth. She welcomed it, tried to soothe him and drain his anger away. She held her own against his furious onslaught, and when she felt him withdraw, she pushed her way into his mouth. Her kiss held the same intensity and passion his had.
Hot. Furious. Explosive. Passion ripped the air between them like a bolt of lightning blasting a tree. Small Bird dug her fingers into his shoulders and hung on. Not once did she protest or pull away. She seemed to understand Swift Foot’s blaz
ing anger, knew it stemmed from guilt, sorrow and his feelings of failure.
He didn’t need to tell her. She knew. And she was sure she was right. Just as she’d been sure Swift Foot needed her, even if he protested against it.
Though it seemed a lifetime, their explosive kiss lasted no more than a few overwhelming heartbeats. Then Swift Foot’s worry, fear and anger transformed into simple need. His brutality became wholly passionate. The savage wildness that Swift Foot was always careful to keep leashed on the battlefield broke loose. He took from Small Bird. She had asked for this, and he would take from her.
He needed, so he would take.
He needed more. He took more.
He groaned beneath the weight of his need, feared it would consume and destroy him. Then Small Bird moaned—not in protest but wholly with husky desire. Somewhere deep in the red haze of his passion, it registered that his wife wasn’t resisting.
Stunned, he realized that her passion matched his, that her lips were pressing just as hard against his, that her teeth were nipping at him in a frenzy of desire. He had not scared her away with his anger, nor with his passion. That calmed him faster than anything.
He shoved her away from him, held her at arm’s length until she regained her balance. Then he released her. Their ragged breathing filled the air as they stared at each other. Her burning black gaze lowered to his mouth then shifted back to his eyes. He took in her bruised, swollen lips and his desire almost overcame him again.
“Go,” he whispered hoarsely.
Nothing scared him more than losing control. In fact, he could not remember having done so since he’d turned seven. Until now. He ran a hand through his hair and realized it was shaking. He wanted to run far from this woman who threatened to destroy so much. But he could not. He’d never run from anything. He’d always faced his pain and anguish.
Even when he’d been forced to leave Emily behind, which was one of the most difficult things he’d ever had to do, he’d faced his pain. Once he’d left her, he could easily have run away. He’d known she would be found, had left her to the care of another of her kind. But he hadn’t run. Instead of sparing himself the emotional pain of listening to her sadness, he’d hidden himself close by and had watched over her, sharing her agony. He’d felt that was his duty.
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