by Gen Bailey
“Come,” he muttered, and he led her back to the blanket he had placed beneath the maple tree. But there wasn’t enough privacy there. Casting a quick glance around their surroundings, he said, “I think we will move this over by the trunk of the willow tree, where we will be hidden from any casual view. And there, I promise I’ll take off my weapons, my breechcloth and my leggings. Even my moccasins. I give you my word of honor that we will lie together naked.”
Still holding her hand, and more than aware of the feminine beauty that was within his grasp, he reached down to pick up the blanket.
Quickly, they stepped away from the maple tree and fled into the protection of the weeping willow. White Thunder spread the blanket close to the tree’s trunk so as to give them maximum privacy, even if it were only privacy from the night itself. Once there, he turned toward her, let go of her hand and placed his rifle on the blanket, though she noted that he set it with care and within easy reach. Next off came his tomahawk, his war ax, war club and several of his knives, many of them hidden in the material that tied at his knees and waist.
She observed, “You are not only well-built with masculine brawn, sir, but you are well armed, also.”
“Is it different in English society?”
“No,” she said. “Oftentimes a man is judged by the condition of his pistols alone.”
He nodded. “A man’s duty is protection,” he explained, “and this can only be done by having a good arsenal of weapons close to hand. All he values is at risk if this is omitted.”
Next, he removed his leggings, which tied to his belt, and from across his chest, the straps of his bags, powder horn and ammunition. Then came his belt, his shirt, his moccasins and finally his breechcloth.
As he let the breechcloth fall, he was well aware that he was ready for her, and there was no hiding the obvious influence that she had on him. But if the amorous state of his body alarmed her, she didn’t show it. Indeed, she took the necessary few steps to bring herself up next to him, throw her arms around his neck and say, “Mr. Thunder, you are as handsome as any Greek god.”
The sensation of his sex nestled in against her stomach was exhilarating. But then, as though she were layering on one sensation after another upon him, she twisted against him. Once again he almost lost himself to her, right then and there.
He moaned and pressed his own hips against her, cautioning himself again to move slowly, inch by inch. Since it was his intention to love her and give her a love that she would never forget, he realized that he had best proceed in a manner that would allow him constant stimulation, but without him reaching the apex of their love too soon.
Perhaps, if he were very lucky, she would never again consider living her life without him. Truthfully, he held out little hope for that.
He brought her to her knees and followed her down, kneeling in front of her, where they swayed against each other as if they danced to a music of their own making. As if in collaboration, the south wind blew gently against the cool night air, the willowy branches of the tree their accompaniment.
She was ready; she was wet, and he realized there was much to be admired about his sex resting against the hot core of hers. For a moment—but a moment only—he joined himself with her. It was not his intention, however, to bring their lovemaking to a peak so soon. He only wished to arouse her passion to a fervent level.
However, he soon found that there was danger here: He had to keep himself well checked. Indeed, he was much too ready to realize the full extent of their lovemaking.
He pulled away from her and laid her into a position on her back, where he leaned over her from the side. From here, he showered her with kisses. All these were works in progress. But there was also a method to his endeavors. He was winding his way down to her breasts.
First he nibbled at one softened mound, while his fingers massaged the other, then over to her other breast. And here he lingered.
He nestled his head between her breasts, as though he were a small child needing comfort. For a moment, he wished he could stay in this position a little longer. But he was completely aware that there were other treasures that awaited him.
Gradually he slipped farther down her body, his kisses extending slowly downward, over her stomach, down farther and farther, until he had at last arrived at the center of her femininity.
With a slight nudge, he pushed her legs apart. But she was uncooperative, and as she brought her legs together, she came up onto her elbows, where she gazed down at him.
“Sir?” she queried. “What is it you intend doing?”
“To love you, my wife.”
“There? ”
He nodded. “There. But do not concern yourself. You will enjoy it.”
He was aware that she frowned at him. “Perhaps I might wash first.”
“There is no need,” he said. “You are perfect as you are.”
He heard her sigh, but at last, she relaxed back, and when he again parted her legs, she acquiesced.
Then he made love to her, showering her with the full extent of his admiration. At first she lay stiffly beneath him, but as his lips and tongue worked its exquisite magic over her, she settled down. After some moments, as if compelled, she began to move in synchronization with the rhythm of his tongue.
He heard her breathing catch, then quicken. He felt her muscles contract around him. He watched as she spread her legs, as though she offered herself to him.
And he accepted her gifts, while his tongue, his mouth, his lips, gave her as much erotic pleasure as he was able. He felt the fire building, felt the fiery pressure of her hips against him, knew she was close to release. She was breathing hard now and her embarrassment seemed to have been a temporary affair. She moved, twisted and strained against him until suddenly, magnificently, she tripped over the edge of release.
It was a certain aphrodisiac for him. He might have eased off his lure over her, but instead of withdrawing from her, he gave her as much of himself as he could, even using his fingers to bring her to the ultimate pinnacle of pleasure.
She exploded with satisfaction, and he reveled in the sounds of her release. At last, as her breathing settled down into a more normal pace, he came up to his knees over her from whence he gazed down at her with all the admiration that was in his heart. And it was plenty.
“White Thunder,” she whispered. “I believe that when you said I would simply enjoy it, you belittled your case.”
He laughed. “You liked it?”
“I think, sir, that you speak in understatement. If there is a heaven on earth, I judge that you have given it to me, if only for a moment.”
“You flatter me,” he said, “but your joy brings me delight, for it is my intention to make memories—as you asked me to do—that you will never forget.”
As he settled himself between her thighs, she reached up to bring him in close to her, and she said, “I think you have accomplished your purpose, Mr. Thunder. But, sir, I have yet to see that you have met your pleasure.”
He sighed. Oh, the complete thrill of her. He said, “Then you are ready for me?”
“Aye, sir, that I am.”
At long last he joined himself with her in passionate embrace. The warmth of her femininity surrounded him, and it occurred to him that this was home. Here, with this woman, was home.
Slowly he began his dance with her. One thrust led to another, her hips meeting and encouraging his euphoria. He shifted position, because although they were sexually embraced, he wished for more. Coming up onto his knees before her, and reaching down for her legs, he settled them around his neck. It was a position that offered him a look into the essence of who she was, for there, within the depths of her eyes, was mirrored her spirit.
He caught her glance as he bore against her. He held that glance. He watched with something akin to awe as she once again rose up to the heights of lovemaking. He stared at her as her movements became more and more intense, watched as she stretched again toward that pinnacle. He
smiled at her. She smiled back. They met, man to woman, spirit to spirit, and looking at her, his love for her exploded until it consumed him.
Their struggle had become frantic. They strained against each other, they gave to each other. And when he at last felt her muscles contract around him, he gave to her every bit of him.
As she toppled over the precipice of her passion, he met her with his own need, flooding her body with his seed. And as their pleasure met its pinnacle, he felt himself become as one with her. As he did so, he was aware that he understood all that she was.
She was pure beauty; she was grace. And whatever the future might hold, he would love her. Always.
As he collapsed against her, Sarah wrapped her arms around his body. Tears stung at the back of her eyes. She loved him. They were bound together and it didn’t matter if they were to be together physically for the rest of their lives or not. Always, she would love him.
Why did the two of them have to be from different worlds? She wanted all those things that women the world over want from the man they love: to stay here with him, to be his woman, to have his children and create her life with him.
But who in English society would understand? Her friend, Marisa? Yes. But that was only one against many.
As she ran her hands through White Thunder’s dark, thick hair, she knew pleasure, yet loss. They had pretended to be married, and as he had warned her, she had fallen in love with him.
She’d wanted memories. She had them. But at this moment, all she desired was to be with him for the rest of her life, and even that seemed that it might not be enough.
But at least she had him with her now. And she would savor every minute of their time together. Always.
Twenty-three
They were moving fast and they were traveling by night. Sarah had long ago learned to keep her stride even with White Thunder. Although he sometimes surpassed her by a large margin, he was never so far ahead of her that she couldn’t catch sight of him. And though she was aware that he adjusted his pace to accommodate her, he still outdistanced her more times than not.
They weren’t using the regular pathways through the woods. “Too many war parties on the move,” White Thunder had said.
So once again, branches, brambles and burrs caught at her dress. But White Thunder had warned her to ensure that nothing snagged and was left behind as evidence that they had passed this way. It slowed her down, but she checked and rechecked those areas of the trail where her dress had caught.
They were en route to the Mohawk village of Andagoran, which sat squarely on the Mohawk River. It was where Black Eagle resided. Interestingly, White Thunder knew of Black Eagle, and was aware of what village he was from. Perhaps this was because they were both part of the Six Nations. Mayhap somewhere in their past, they or their fathers might have counseled together.
Whatever the reason for his knowledge, Sarah was simply glad that they wouldn’t be required to search from village to village in order to find Marisa and Black Eagle.
Sarah had at first disagreed with White Thunder on journeying to the Mohawk village, if only because her main concern was to warn Marisa against returning to Albany. In her mind, anxiety alone would have sent Marisa to Albany.
But White Thunder was certain that if Black Eagle intended to marry the girl—and it appeared that he did—he would have taken her to his home. After several conversations on the topic, Sarah had recognized the logic of White Thunder’s thoughts, and she had capitulated.
They were already two days on the move. Back in the Adirondack Mountains, however, they had spent another two days wrapped in each other’s arms. Now and again they had exerted themselves and had applied their talents to the task of drying meat for their journey. But all their work had only been done halfheartedly. It seemed that they were both more engrossed with each other than they were with food.
But at last it was done, and with the chore behind them, there had been no further reason to stay, even though the spot could be compared to a cathedral in the wilderness. Even they had come to realize that eventually they would have to rejoin society.
They had left the next day. At present, although their quickened pace didn’t allow Sarah to study or appreciate the woods in detail, she did note that straight ahead of them, there appeared to be a clearing in the trees. Was this it, then? Had they finally arrived at the village of Andagoran?
All at once, the clearing was upon them, and like two deer suddenly frightened, they burst out of the forest at a speed that was as fast as it was brisk. And no sooner had they cleared the trees and undergrowth than they were surrounded by large fields. Because it was late autumn, the fields lay barren. Here and there a few black tree stumps dotted the fields, and occasionally they passed an empty sentry post, which was a lean-to that had been raised up high on poles. But outside of the remnants of these leantos, the fields were deserted.
Looking at them, Sarah pointed to one of the outposts and asked, “What is that for?”
White Thunder glanced in its direction and answered, “When the fields are ripening and the crops are growing, the women and children come to those posts to watch for crows and other birds. All must be scared away lest the animals eat all the food. These outposts can also be used to watch for the approach of an enemy. That’s why they’re built high.”
“Oh, I see. And where’s the village? All I can bear witness to here are fields.”
White Thunder pointed toward a cliff set high and slightly back from the river.
“Ah,” said Sarah. “I see it now.”
Their pace had slowed but little, and though they no longer traveled at a run, their walking stride was almost as fast as their sprinting had been.
“Guards have spotted us. Come,” he said, “we must sit and await their sentries.”
“Truly? Why is that?”
“Because it is considered uncivil to enter a village without invitation. Even then, as soon as we are taken into a village, we’ll be escorted to the Stranger’s House, where we’ll remain while the people are told that we are there. In this way, the people will have the opportunity to prepare food for us to eat and bring us skins to sit on in order to see to our comfort. Only once we are well fed and relaxed will we commence conversation. It is at that time that we’ll be able to ask them about Black Eagle and your friend.”
“It sounds very hospitable. Indeed, after all of our adventures in the woods, I will be happy to accept their goodwill.”
“I think you will find it pleasant.”
In due time, two old men approached them. “Brother,” one of the men addressed White Thunder. “I see by your clothes and by the tattoo on your arm that you are my Seneca brother. I see also by the state of your clothing that you have traveled a distance to visit us and have perhaps encountered much hardship.”
“This is so.”
“Then, Brother, come let me escort you into our village, where I will take you to the Stranger’s House, while I alert the people that we have a guest.” He nodded toward Sarah. “Is the woman a captive?”
“She is not.”
The old man nodded once again. “Come, I will show you to the Stranger’s House.”
The view was spectacular. The village was positioned on a cliff overlooking Mohawk fields and the Mohawk River, which flowed and gurgled over rocks and boulders in an ever continuing cascade of white waves. In the distance, mountains and hills rose up both east and west of them. Set against a blue sky, the site for Andagoran was surrounded by breathtaking beauty.
The entrance to the town was unusual, as well, consisting of overlapping logs instead of a gate. At this entrance, she noted, was yet another outpost. Big, dangerous-looking men stood guard at the entry point. That each of them stared at her, not in greeting, but as though she were an enemy, was intimidating.
Sarah looked away, swallowing hard. She must have lagged behind, because as soon as she glanced forward, she noted that White Thunder was well in the lead. She hurried toward him, fol
lowing on his heels. As she and White Thunder, along with the two older gentlemen, rounded the corner of the overlapping logs, the village at last came into view.
Like a scene gradually opening up before her, her first impression of the village was that of colors: the greens and browns of dried grasses; the browns of the trees and long-houses; the oranges, yellows and golds of produce set upon the ground; the multicolored prints of the people’s clothing, although there were only a few people in sight. The village, she decided, was not without beauty.
She heard male voices singing and a drumming noise in the background, but the sound was muffled, as though it were coming from within a building. The scent of smoke hung heavy in the air, as well as the fragrances of farm-rich beans, squash and husks. And somewhere, someone—or perhaps many someones—was cooking food.
The flavors in the air were so numerous and delicious smelling that Sarah was reminded that her recent diet of dried meat and berries was not the only food to be had.
She and White Thunder were led to a longhouse, one that was called the Stranger’s House.
“Soon,” said one of the two elderly men, “one of us or another will return with food and clothing, as well as furs to sit on. Eat, be at your ease and make yourselves comfortable. After you are refreshed, we will smoke, and then we can begin conversation.”
The door to the longhouse remained open, and this was good, for the shelter smelled of dirt, bark and the charred remains of a fire. It was also dark in the interior of the structure, if only because there were no windows. The only light, it seemed, came from smoke holes in the ceiling, and from the open door.
A long corridor led from one end of the longhouse to the other; in the center were two hearths, evenly spaced apart. Glancing around, Sarah thought that the longhouse might have been forty feet long, twenty to thirty feet wide, and perhaps twenty feet high. On each side of the structure were compartments, where she supposed a guest might berth if he or she were staying the night. Attached to several posts hung corn cobs to dry, as well as gourds and other articles needed for cooking.