Rebel

by Zoë Archer

  “It will be done.” The chief turned to Nathan. “He Who Is Far, your journey is not over.”

  Nathan looked at the river, moving fast and cold over rocks, and then at Astrid, just as swift and cool, but warmth was in her, like the light shining upon the water.

  “It’s just starting,” Nathan answered.

  Astrid took the front position in the canoe, and Nathan’s seat was close enough that he could catch her subtle, verdant scent above the freshwater. He clenched his teeth as he fought the beast. Damn his sharpened animal senses. The next few days on the river promised to be hell.

  As they pushed off from the riverbank, Thunder Eagle and most of his band gathered to watch. Some of the children shouted what Nathan had to assume were farewells, and ran alongside the river as he and Astrid began paddling. When the river turned a bend, the children stopped and waved. Another bend, and the children disappeared.

  “We should practice our strokes,” Astrid said.

  He didn’t think she meant the kind of strokes that he’d been imagining with more and more frequency. Images of him buried deep inside of her. Her sleek legs wrapped around him. And the even darker demands of the beast. Him covering her from behind. Seizing her neck with his teeth as he claimed her.

  “I’m ready,” he said, a little more huskily than he’d intended.

  He had his share of female company in Victoria—mostly married women with neglectful or unfaithful husbands, no one with whom he could ever have or want a future—and he thought he had a normal man’s sexual appetite. But ever since meeting Astrid, he battled constantly the demands of his beast.

  It wasn’t just the animal desire to mate that drew him to her. They shared a bond beyond their immediate goals, the parallels of their lives, something that pushed into the realm of the unspoken. Her intriguing combination of toughness and vulnerability. Her acceptance of him, as a shifter, as a man. And those long legs, her rosy, full mouth, the storm gray of her eyes. Either way, he was balanced on a knife’s edge of need, getting sharper by the day, the hour and minute.

  Making love in a canoe wouldn’t work. He could never move cautiously enough to keep them from tipping over. Get to the shore, then—

  “Follow my lead,” she said briskly, breaking into the haze of his erotic thoughts.

  As the river wound gently past tree-fringed, rocky banks, they practiced their strokes. It had been awhile since Nathan had been in a canoe, but as he and Astrid worked out their pivots, draws, and braces, they fell into an easy, instinctual rhythm. Without speaking, they understood just how to maneuver the boat, how to lean and balance their weight when needed, avoiding large rocks and eddies with hardly a word exchanged, only an innate awareness of what needed to be done and how to work together.

  He drew in a deep breath, taking in the clear, bright air, the evergreen needles in the afternoon sunlight. Even though the perfume of her skin aroused, having her so close, the forest and river around them as they journeyed toward the lands of his true people—everything felt right. For the first time in…maybe ever.

  “I need to learn that language you spoke,” he said, interrupting the sounds of flowing water and dipping paddles.

  “Swedish? Why?”

  “What you spoke with Thunder Eagle.”

  “Ah. A dialect of Nakota. It’s Siouan.”

  “Can’t get answers if I can’t speak the same language as my ancestors.”

  “Mine is not a perfect understanding,” she cautioned.

  “Doesn’t matter. Whatever you can teach me.”

  She turned slightly so he could see the curve of her cheek as she smiled. “Are you sure it isn’t because you do not like relying on me to translate?”

  Perhaps because she faced away from him, he found it easier to speak, and what he said next surprised him with its candor. “I’m not used to relying on anybody.”

  She was silent for a moment, and he thought he’d said too much, but then she said, “It leaves you open, exposed.” Her voice was meditative. “You think if you depend on someone, then, when they leave, you are weak and likely to be hurt.”

  “Yes,” he answered, hoarse. She cut straight to the heart of him. With knowledge she gleaned from herself.

  She made a soft exhalation, part humor, part regret. “A fine pair, we are.”

  “Better we are who we are, than who the world expects us to be.”

  “So young,” she murmured, “but almost wise.” She was definitely laughing now. He couldn’t make himself mind, to hear the sound, even more liquid and bright than the river. He only wished he could see what she looked like at that moment. “How old are you, Lesperance?”

  “Twenty-eight,” he said.

  “Oh, God.” She shook her head. “A child. I am going up against the Heirs with a child.”

  He snorted. If she was older than him, it couldn’t have been by more than a year or two. “Damned ill-bred of you to ask my age.”

  “It’s the mountains,” she answered. “They took all my polish. I was a jewel, but now I’m a rock.”

  “Rocks are much more useful than jewels.”

  Her words grew quiet. “The most powerful Source is merely a rock. But it has the strength to destroy everything.”

  She’d gone back to that dark place within herself, and he had to draw her back out. “So, you’re scared.”

  “What?” she demanded sharply.

  “Scared to teach me Nakota. Afraid I might surpass you.”

  She made a noise of exasperation at his goading, but he didn’t care, because the darkness around her fell away. “Do not blame me if you say the wrong thing and wind up getting scalped.”

  He again resisted the urge to touch his short hair, another clear marker that he was not truly part of the Native world. The teachers always insisted boys kept their hair cut short, to indicate they were civilized, and he’d continued to do so out of habit. Now he wondered whether he might let it grow—but then, he had no idea what came next for him in his life. All he could focus on at the moment was finding the Earth Spirits and learning more about his ability to change into a wolf. There were those son-of-a-bitch Heirs of Albion to contend with, too.

  And Astrid.

  As they navigated the river, wending through narrow stone gorges, over widening and then tapering stretches, passing fields of late summer flowers, she did teach him. Despite what she claimed, her knowledge of Stoney Nakota was extensive, and she was a hell of a teacher. Patient, but also demanding, correcting his pronunciation, making him repeat words and phrases until he got them exactly right, yet she was complimentary. She didn’t praise him often, but when she did, it was simple and heartfelt, and that meant a great deal more than effusive lauding.

  “How do you say ‘rain’?” she prompted.

  “Marazhud.”

  “And to say, ‘It is raining hard’?”

  “Nihna marazhud.”

  “You learn quickly,” she said. “It would take most people weeks or more to reach this point.”

  “I keep telling you that I’m not most people,” he chided, “but you don’t listen.”

  “I only pay attention to the things that matter.”

  He didn’t mind her teasing—it meant his persistence with her paid off. He could not imagine the ice fortress of a woman he’d met only a few days ago at the trading post would have even spoken more than a few words, let alone teach him Nakota or make fun of him. But there was a wide gulf between teasing and trust.

  That gulf was more treacherous than the river. Until now.

  Astrid was teaching him the difference between Daca canuca?—What are you doing?—and Dudiki naca—Where are you going?—when the river began to move faster. The canoe heaved as white, churning froth crested the water’s surface. Large boulders along the bed turned the once-placid river seething. Directly ahead, two rocky outcroppings jutted into the water just as the river narrowed.

  “This concludes today’s lesson,” Astrid said, readying herself for the rapids.r />
  “Or it’s just about to begin,” said Nathan. He felt a spike of mixed fear and excitement. None of the rivers he’d navigated on Vancouver Island were like this.

  The canoe shot forward as the water picked up speed. They bounced along, dipping low and rising high with the swells.

  “We need power,” Astrid called over her shoulder. “Put your weight into it.”

  They both began digging hard into the water with their oars as they neared the narrowing. She guided them straight down the middle, shouting directions above the now thunderous river, and dodging obstacles. The outcroppings suddenly loomed above them as they plunged forward.

  “Keep your shoulders in,” she yelled.

  Nathan hunched down but still felt one of the outcroppings scrape his shoulder. He hissed in pain as the rock bit into him.

  “Are you all right?” she shouted.

  “Fine,” he gritted. “We’re not done.”

  The canoe burst out from between the outcroppings into a steep dive. They careened onward in a chute, the boat angling so far down both Nathan and Astrid had to brace their feet and knees against the hull of the canoe to keep from tumbling out. A sharp curve ahead threatened to smash them into the rocks. Nathan threw himself to the side, using his weight to counterbalance the canoe, as Astrid steered them through the turn. Spray washed over them both as they banked, went backward, then turned in an eddy.

  They followed the river as it terraced in broad pools, down, farther down. He saw the water break ahead of them.

  “Falls!” Astrid yelled, but he saw.

  “Holy hell,” he muttered.

  Chapter 6

  Rapids

  They launched over the top. For a moment they flew, roiling water below. A brief, wonderful weightlessness. Then, descent. With a splash, they landed, jolting, her hat falling back, dangling from its cord, and she was ready, guiding the canoe onward.

  Suddenly, they were through. The water calmed, as placid as if the rapids had been a brief display of bad manners. He glanced back to see the way they had come. Damn—without Astrid’s guidance, the canoe would be slivers of birch floating on the river’s surface. But she’d gotten them through, and it had been a hell of a ride.

  Nathan shook the water from his hair, laughing, torn between relief and wanting to do it all over again. Astrid’s shoulders shuddered. Only when she turned to him, he saw it was from silent laughter. She’d enjoyed those rapids, the thrill of them, every bit as much as, if not more so than, he had.

  His laughter stopped as he stared at her. The beast within growled its praise. Gems of water clung to the gold of her hair, which had partially come loose from its braid. A few damp tendrils clung to her neck and cheeks. The storm gray of her eyes changed to sparkling silver, alight with joy, and she smiled now. Not the usual small, reluctant curve of her mouth, but a true smile, and, though she was handsome before, with this rekindled fire in her, she glowed, became luminously beautiful.

  Beast and man had to touch her. Nathan reached out with one hand to stroke his fingers down the curve of her cheek and over the column of her throat. The softness of her. Every part of him roared to life, the beast lunging and straining on its chain, the effort to keep it back pushing him almost to breaking. He was already roused from taking the rapids. Now, to touch her like this, feel her skin—he wanted to launch himself at her.

  She gazed at him, her laughter lost as she caught her breath. Longing suffused her face. Her eyes fluttered closed as she leaned into his caress, her lips parting. He knew it. It had been a long time for her, so long since she’d permitted a man to touch her.

  Not content with merely the brush of his fingers on her flesh, Nathan’s hand cupped the back of her head, threading his fingers into her hair. He pulled her closer. She did not resist.

  He brought their mouths together. With that small contact, Nathan erupted into flames. Some rational part of him—a very small part, getting smaller by the heartbeat—knew he should go slow, be gentle, coax her into the softest of kisses. But he lost all rationality as soon as their lips contacted. The animal inside broke from its restraints.

  Hard to say who was more greedy. The kiss turned wild in an instant. Her mouth opened to his as their tongues met and stroked, wet and searching. She tasted of honey and milk.

  This was not a girl’s shy kiss. Astrid kissed like a woman, full and unashamed. She knew her hunger and claimed it. The same way he claimed her lips. He growled into her damp mouth and was rewarded a hundred times over when she growled in response. His beast recognized the rightness of this.

  The paddle slid from his other hand to the floor of the canoe as he released it to stroke over her shoulder, down her arm, then move to her waist. But she was wearing that damned heavy coat, so he shoved back the fabric impatiently, delving beneath to feel her curves. Her shirt was warm, having taken on the heat of her body, and beneath that, he felt the whisper of a camisole. God, to touch her there, with nothing between them. Demanding more, he tugged at her clothes, pulling her shirt up, and her breath hitched when he caressed his palm over the bare skin of her waist and higher.

  He thought she might feel good, because women did feel good, so different, so yielding. Yet the feel of Astrid devastated him. The finest silk, liquid and hot, and, though supple, lean and tight with muscle. Life in the wilderness shaped her, strengthened her. Most men loved the softness of women, their need for protection. He saw now that a woman of strength, this woman, overwhelmed him and his beast with wanting, knowing she could meet his strength with her own. He stroked upward and met the delicious swell of the underside of her breast.

  They both jolted, and he nearly toppled on top of her.

  With a snarl, he lifted his head to see that the canoe had bumped against the shore, lodging itself between trees that had fallen into the water. She saw this, too, her eyes drifting open. A flush spread over her cheeks, across the bridge of her nose, as she gazed at him.

  They had to get to dry land, now. He needed more. More of her.

  He began to stand, tugging on her hands to follow. She made a strangled sound, looking downward, and he followed her glance. His cock, hard and demanding, pressed against the front of his trousers, its need and intent obvious. Not a surprise. Though he couldn’t remember wanting a woman more than he did at that moment. He started to pull her to her feet.

  “Not here,” she gasped.

  “Fine,” he rumbled. “In the canoe. On a mountaintop.”

  She pulled away, tucking her shirt in. She looked rumpled and fogged, far removed from a flint-eyed recluse. “We have to…keep moving.” She shook her head as though to clear it. “The river. We need to get farther. Before dark. We—”

  “Astrid.” His voice barely sounded like him, octaves deeper, more animal than human.

  “No!” She was fierce, turning away. “Not now. Not yet.”

  “Soon.”

  She shoved at the riverbank with her paddle. To keep from tumbling into the water, Nathan lowered back down to sitting, though he grimaced in pain from his aching cock. He breathed in hard, forcing himself and the beast back under control but having a hell of a time. The beast demanded more. He never took an unwilling woman—even if the woman’s body was so damned willing she could start a firestorm with her heat.

  “I don’t know,” she said, and it ripped at him, to hear the gravel of emotion in her words. “Damn it, I don’t know a bloody thing. I just want to be left alone.”

  He clenched his jaw so tightly it throbbed, felt the animal in him growl, demanding to be set free. But he was more than animal. He had to prove that to her, and to himself.

  In silence, they pushed back into the river. As they did this, they took up their paddles to ride the currents, and Nathan vowed that he’d untie the tangles knotted around her, or shred them apart, before he, too, was torn to pieces by the beast of his own desire.

  They ran out of river. It didn’t disappear, but it pushed between narrow, steep cliffs, impenetrable by can
oe. Nothing left to do but portage.

  Which suited Nathan fine. He’d tried to wear himself and the beast out paddling, throwing as much energy as he could into tackling the river, and his arms burned with the punishment he meted out. But it still wasn’t enough. He felt ready to kick mountains into rubble, tear fir trees into splinters—anything to exhaust the fury of frustration and ravenous beast inside of him.

  Carrying a canoe over several miles might serve. Astrid was a physically capable woman, but she didn’t have his strength, so she took the burden of a few of their packs and the paddles. The rest of the gear was draped over him. He picked up the canoe, rolled it overhead, and then balanced it carefully, supporting its weight with a leather tump strap across his forehead. Astrid had tied a rope to the bow of the boat, and, with him holding the rope, he used it to steer as he walked.

  It took a few minutes for him to adjust to moving with the burden of the canoe. Once or twice, he came close to flipping over like a turtle. He grit his teeth to master the movement. He was as ill-tempered as a bear, and watching Astrid striding ahead of him on her slim, long legs while he fought for footing didn’t improve his mood. Soon, though, he found a pace and stride that worked best.

  “Let me spell you,” Astrid said after an hour.

  “I’ve got it,” he growled back. Like hell would he let her carry the load. Besides, it felt too good to push himself until his legs and arms ached. He wanted the beast beaten down with exhaustion, but the damned thing seemed tireless.

  She shrugged and moved ahead.

  They tramped through a mile of boggy muskeg, making his mood even more foul. Thank the devil it was late enough in the season that the mosquitoes were in short supply. Fortunately, they cleared the muskeg and moved into denser forest—though that made his job a little less easy. Then, just as the sun began to dip behind the western mountains, clouds descended. Afternoon turned to dusk.

  “Smells like rain,” he said.