She knew she should protest and throw off his hand, but the peculiar sensations that spiraled down her spine were more pleasant than threatening. "I'm not in the habit of giving my name to strange men or allowing them liberties," she protested. "A lady must be formally introduced. You will please..." she threw up her hand to push his away, and he laughed, a deep, warm sound that lulled her fears.
"This man is Fire Hawk That Hunts At Dawn, warrior of the Cherokee." He removed his hand, but not before he sensually brushed her fingers in the motion. "Below us are wild dogs. They do not tell me their names. Now we have formal introduction. You are?"
"Katherine," she replied, feeling foolish. "My name is Katherine Miles, but I am called Kate." She knotted her fingers into a fist, but she could not forget the shock of his touch.
"Kate."
The way he said her name made her skin prickle. She was still afraid of him, but her curiosity was nearly as strong as her urge to flee. She had a thousand questions she longed to ask him about America—if he really was a savage—but she forced herself to maintain an illusion of dignity. "If you will chase away the dogs, I can walk home," she murmured. "If you release me unharmed, I promise I won't tell anyone that you laid hands on me."
"You do not trust Fire Hawk."
She drew in a ragged breath. "Why should I? It's not every day that a . . . an Indian snatches me from my saddle and flings me into a tree." This was all so very strange that she began to wonder if she'd taken a fall from her horse, been knocked unconscious, and was dreaming all this. There was something very unreal about John Fire Hawk. A beam of sunlight piercing the canopy of leaves overhead shone directly on him, illuminating his features and casting a golden glow around him.
"You do not answer this man's questions about gypsies," he reminded her. "You say that they tell lies because they do not wash, but I lived among the Spanish Jesus fathers for eight winters. They never wash." He arched a black slash of a brow. "Most Englishmen stink, too."
"My father bathes. He washes all over each fortnight in summer, and monthly in all but the dead of winter."
"I see."
"Gypsies do not bathe at all."
"Never?"
"How do I know?" She was fast losing whatever control she had. A few minutes more and she would dissolve into tears or hysterics. "I told you I'm not personally acquainted with any gypsies. I can only say what I've heard."
"Cherokee wash every day."
She glared at him as the impossibility of that statement sunk in. "Now I know you are spinning tales!" she declared. "Everyone knows that the winters in the New World are terrible."
"Ha!" He scoffed. "You know nothing about Cherokees. You know nothing about gypsies."
She felt as though she was about to dissolve into tears. "I'm telling the truth when I say my father will do something terrible to you if you don't release me," she managed.
"So." He nodded. "We wait no more." He made a quick, slashing move with his right palm, flashed her an enigmatic smile, and leaped down into the midst of the wild dogs.
Scarlet RIbbons Page 33