This Fierce Loving

by French, Judith E.

  Fox shrugged. “Perhaps, but I think not. I’m not a man who likes to sleep with the stench of a puma in his robes.”

  “Take care of her.”

  “As if she were my own sister.”

  Fox turned back toward the stream. Talon covered him with his rifle until he reached cover on the other side, then looked down at Becca. “Come,” he said gently to her. “We go.”

  “Go where?” she croaked. “What . . .” She rubbed her throat and tried again. “Why . . .”

  “Hush,” he soothed. “Don’t try to talk. Your voice will come back in a day or two.”

  “But why—” she whispered hoarsely.

  “We go,” he said. “Unless you wish to see me kill your husband before your eyes.”

  She shook her head.

  “Then you must trust me, Becca.” He paused long enough to gather up the dead man’s gun, knife, hatchet, and powder horn before leading the way south, up a wooded slope, away from the creek. He didn’t look back to see if she was following, but the soft sound of her footfalls told him what he needed to know.

  Rebecca didn’t know how many miles they walked that day or how many half-frozen streams they crossed. She didn’t have the slightest idea where Talon was taking her, and she’d lost all sense of direction. He could have been leading her to Canada or straight to hell for all she knew. All that mattered was that she was tired, wet, and cold. Her throat ached and her face was swollen and bruised from the scout’s beating. She wanted something to eat, and she wanted a soft bed near a fire. At this point, hell didn’t look all that bad. At least it would be warm, she thought wryly.

  She’d made a few attempts to ask Talon what he intended to do with her, but he’d warned her that voices carried a long way in the woods. He had made it plain that he didn’t want to talk, and his mood was less than cheerful. Finally, she gave up and concentrated on staying close behind him.

  By dark, the misty rain had changed to snow. Her feet felt like wooden stumps, and she was so weary that she didn’t think she could take another step. When she stumbled and nearly fell, he picked her up and carried her the last mile. Too cold to protest, she closed her eyes against the falling snow and huddled against his chest, trying desperately to borrow some of his body warmth.

  “Here,” he said, stopping short. He dropped her onto her feet, keeping one arm around her to keep her from falling. “We will have a fire soon.”

  She stared at a one-room log cabin that seemed to have materialized out of the forest. She could just make out a small cleared area of raw tree stumps and a smaller log shed a few yards from the cabin. “Who lives here?” she asked him.

  “No one. This is a trading post. The Frenchman Adrian Pascal built it. Usually, he spends winters here with his Ottawa wife, but this year, he did not come. Word is that Pascal lost a leg up on the Hockhocking River last summer.” Talon raised the heavy wooden bar and pushed up the door. “Come.” He motioned for her to follow. “We will be safe here.”

  “Why?” she wondered aloud.

  “Pascal used to be a Jesuit priest. He knew a lot about the failings of men. He chose this site carefully. This valley is haunted by the ghosts of great creatures with leg bones the size of trees. On stormy nights, they say you can hear them trumpeting.”

  “Haunted by animal ghosts?” She followed him inside, out of the wind, and sank down on the floor, grateful that it was hewn log and not more cold, wet earth.

  Talon closed the door behind them and moved across the room. “Pascal always kept flint and steel on the fireplace mantel. Yes, here it is.” In seconds, he had struck a spark and then another. In five minutes time, Talon had a small fire burning on the hearth.

  Rebecca was relieved to see a large pile of dry firewood stacked along one wall. Gratefully, she edged closer to the flickering flames and held out her stiff hands. Talon removed his fur wrap and draped it around her shoulders, and she murmured her thanks.

  He continued to add more sticks until the rosy glow of the fire illuminated the small cabin. It was crudely furnished with a table and benches, a low bed, and a counter that ran along the wall opposite the firewood. An iron kettle was propped upside down on the stone hearth.

  Talon took the kettle outside and returned with it half full of snow. “There’s a spring behind the cabin, but I’m not going to search for it tonight. We can melt snow for water.” He hung the kettle on an iron crane and added a mixture of cornmeal, dried meat, and dried berries from bags in his hunting pack. Almost at once, a delicious smell began to drift from the simmering broth.

  Good wool blankets were pegged to the wall. Talon took them down, shook out the dust and mice nests, and spread them on the sapling bed frame. “When it stops snowing, I’ll make you a mattress of pine boughs,” he said. “For now, it will be hard sleeping.”

  “I don’t care,” she said. “I just want to be warm and dry. If it wasn’t wet, I could sleep on a brick wall.” Her voice still came out as a grating whisper.

  He chuckled and some of the lines on his face smoothed. “This man too is grateful for a warm bed,” he admitted.

  He’s not made of stone after all, Rebecca thought. He feels cold and fatigue. He was worried about finding shelter for us tonight; I can see the relief in his eyes.

  She pushed back the wrap and went to the plank cupboard and brought back two tin bowls and wooden spoons. The dishes had been turned upside down to keep mice out. Still, she couldn’t resist wiping them out with the hem of her coat. A tin dipper dangled from the mantel ledge; she used that to ladle out the stew.

  Talon settled onto the floor, legs folded, and accepted the brimming bowl with a nod of thanks. She had already taken the first hot spoonful of her own meal when she realized that Talon was whispering a prayer over his. She remembered that in his sister’s house, an Indian grace had been offered before any food was eaten.

  “You are an amazing man,” she said.

  “No, Becca, I am just a man as any other.”

  “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

  “Nor I.” He took a sip of the broth.

  “I ran away,” she said.

  “And nearly got yourself killed.”

  She looked at the steaming bowl in her hands. “I thought it would be best for both of us if I wasn’t there when you got back.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t talk anymore, Becca. Eat and sleep. Tomorrow, your throat will be better. Tomorrow you will be rested.”

  “But I want to—”

  “No, not tonight. You have been through much. Sleep first. Recover, and then this man will listen to all you have to say.”

  Nodding, she finished her supper, dashed outside to tend to her personal needs, and returned to warm up by the fire, before climbing into bed. She made no protest when he slid in beside her.

  Like husband and wife, she thought. First, we share the evening meal, then . . . She swallowed and her heartbeat quickened.

  “There is only one bed,” he said.

  She didn’t answer, but a shiver of anticipation ran through her and her mouth went dry.

  “You are safe here, Becca,” he assured her, turning his back without touching her. “Sleep now. Tomorrow, we will talk.”

  She was lying beside a hostile Shawnee warrior, she thought. She should be terrified, both for her honor and her life. And yet . . . yet, she felt more secure than she’d ever felt in Simon’s bed. She lay there motionless except for the faint rise and fall of her chest, listening to him breathe, letting his clean, male scent wash over her.

  She wanted to touch him. In spite of her bruises, her swollen throat, her aches and pains, she wanted him to hold her in his muscular arms. She wanted him to cover her mouth with his—to claim her with his strong hands and fill her with his sex.

  Could it be that Talon found her as undesirable as Simon seemed to? Would no decent man wish to make love to her? They were here, wrapped in the same blankets, sharing a bed. How could he ignore her? How could she sleep when her body
cried out for fulfillment?

  The lump in her throat grew until it hurt. Tears seeped through her clenched eyelids.

  I want you, she wanted to scream. I want you to make me a woman! Here, tonight, before I lose my nerve.

  But the words would not come, and somehow, surprisingly, she did drift off to a dreamless sleep, unmarred by night terrors.

  She smelled roasting chicken. Sighing, she turned over and opened her eyes, then sat up in bed with a start. “Talon?” she cried.

  Had he left her? The cabin was empty. She felt the space where he had slept. No warmth remained from his body.

  “Talon?” She threw back the covers, stood up, and looked around the small room as though she expected him to be hiding somewhere. She called his name again, then smiled with relief as she saw the large bird roasting on the spit over the fire.

  He wouldn’t go to all the trouble of shooting a turkey, picking and cleaning it, then putting it on to cook, if he didn’t intend to share in the feast, she decided.

  Unconsciously, her hand went to her hair. I must look a mess, she thought. Her voice sounded unnatural to her ears, but much of the swelling had gone down. Her fingertips slid down to brush the bruises on her throat.

  Suddenly, a gust of cold air hit her. She turned to see Talon coming through the open door. It was snowing outside and clouds of frozen crystals swirled around him. “Oh,” she murmured.

  He smiled at her and shook the snow off his unbound hair. The streaks of war paint were gone from his face, and he looked much younger. “There is no need for you to be out of bed,” he said. “Today you rest. I will serve you.” A contagious mischief lurked behind his dark eyes, an unexpected playfulness that she could not resist.

  “Is that an order to a helpless prisoner?”

  He made a sharp sign of dismissal with his right hand. “Ku. There will be no more talk of prisoners between us, at least not here in this valley of the ghost bones. Here we are only Becca and Talon.”

  “And . . .”

  “And it is my wish that you go back to bed and let me care for you this day.”

  “Oh.” She pursed her lips. “There are some things a gentleman cannot do for a lady.”

  His eyes expressed puzzlement.

  A flush warmed her cheeks. “I must go outside,” she explained.

  “But the storm. We cannot—” Then a knowing look spread over his bronze features. “Yuho. You must go out.” He laughed. “Behind the shed. I’m sorry the cabin does not offer other arrangements. But the snow isn’t too deep there. You can—”

  “You tend the bird and let me tend my needs,” she said, a little too sharply. She prided herself on being a practical woman, but some subjects were too personal to be discussed with a man.

  She was all too glad to return to the cabin a few minutes later. Stamping snow off her moccasins and shivering, she went again to the fire. Considering the intensity of the wind outside, she was surprised how warm the cabin was. But the single room was small and low and constructed of heavy timber chinked with clay. There was not even a single window. The only light, even in daytime, came from the glowing hearth.

  “I was about to come searching for you,” he said.

  She nodded. “It’s bad out there, but I kept close to the house.”

  “If you lost your way, you could freeze to death out there. The storm may blow for several days.”

  “I’m glad there’s plenty of wood.”

  “The Frenchman is wise in the way of the forest.”

  Talon had warmed the remainder of last night’s meal while she was outside. He handed her a bowl. She started as his hand brushed hers and nearly dropped the stew on the floor. Their eyes met and then both looked away, too quickly.

  “Careful,” he cautioned, trying to act as though nothing had passed between them. “The turkey will take a while.”

  She covered her own confusion by talking about the meal he’d found for them. “It smells wonderful,” she said. “How did you find a turkey in the snow?”

  “Skill,” he replied. “Haven’t you heard? This man is a great hunter.” He grinned boyishly. “And luck. The stupid birds were roosting in a tree at the edge of the clearing. I caught two with my bare hands.”

  “Then you deserve to boast. Turkeys are the wariest game in the forest.”

  “But not in snow. They tucked their heads under their wings and waited for this hunter to pluck them from their perch.” His eyes were on her again, and she knew that he wasn’t thinking about turkeys.

  She concentrated on her breakfast and tried to ignore his admiring gaze. “Will the storm last long, do you think?” she asked.

  “Does it matter?” He moved closer to her. “None can reach us while the snow blankets the forest and the wind howls like a wolf.”

  “No one?” She was warm enough to be uncomfortable. Setting down her bowl, she removed her coat and placed it over the bench. When she turned her back to him, her skin prickled, not unpleasantly, but with curious anticipation.

  “We are alone, Becca,” he said as she turned to face him. “You and this man. Does it frighten you?”

  She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, and her stomach did flip-flops. “Should it?” Waves of heat washed over her and she took a deep breath.

  He came to her then and took her in his arms. “There can be nothing between us, my Becca,” he whispered huskily. “Nothing but a few stolen days in this haunted valley. Will you steal them with me?”

  She stood stiffly in his embrace for long seconds, then slowly, her resistance melted. She laid her head against his chest and listened to the strong, regular beat of his heart. She let his scent envelop her. Then, almost as if she was dreaming, she slowly smiled and looked up into his dark, almond shaped eyes. “Talon,” she answered. “Talon, I—”

  “Do not say it.” He closed her lips gently with two calloused fingers. “Do not say that we are enemies, or that you belong to another. Do not say that once we leave this place, we can never think or speak of this time again.”

  “But I—” she began.

  “No. Do not tell me that what we do breaks the laws of your people and mine.” His big hand cupped her cheek and one fingertip stroked a stray lock of her hair. “There is no need to say what we both know.”

  “Talon.” She needed to say his name . . . needed to hear him say hers, not in anger, but in yearning.

  “Becca.”

  How sweet the sounds were in her ears. No one, not even Colin, said her name in just that way. Trembling, not from cold but excitement, she drew in a ragged breath and laid her hand over his. “I don’t care,” she whispered.

  “I care,” he said with wrenching emotion. “I care more for you than right or wrong. I care enough to trade my honor for a chance to—”

  “Talon.” Happiness bubbled up inside her as her barriers crumbled. “Stop talking and kiss me.”

  He did not have to be told twice. He bent down and brushed her lips with his. And once again, for Rebecca, the earth shifted under her feet. She threw her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, as the kiss that began with hesitant tenderness slowly deepened into something more.

  How perfectly we fit, she thought, arms and chins and lips, without effort or conscious thought . . . fit as though we were two halves of a whole that were separated and now have come together. And with that thought came such a wave of pent-up longing that Rebecca closed her eyes and gave herself over to the unfamiliar sensations of delight.

  She clung to him, wanting the kiss to go on and on. His tongue slid between her teeth, and she gave a little cry of surprise and then intense pleasure. Two could play this wonderful game. She savored the taste and texture of his mouth, the sweetness of his breath, and the feel of his strong, hard fingers twining in her hair. Simon had always smelled of tobacco and sometimes of rum. Talon’s mouth was clean and minty, as fresh as new snow.

  His body molded against hers, all sinew and bone, so different from her own, and yet so
familiar. She had sensed he would feel like this, and she could not get enough of him.

  His fingers moved down to trace the raised bruises on her throat, and she felt him stiffen. When she opened her eyes and looked into his, she saw such a fierce flame raging there that she shivered. His eyes are as wild and untamed as the puma’s, she thought. But then he stroked her hair and kissed the bruises with a touch as light as a butterfly’s wing, and she knew that the fire in Talon burned to protect her, never to do her harm.

  Tears welled up in her eyes, and their lips met again. He trailed a series of soft caresses to her ear and down to her neck. One bronze hand supported the back of her head while his other slid down to support the curve of her spine. And all the while, he murmured endearments to her in the Indian tongue—words she needed no translation to understand.

  A strange excitement possessed her. It didn’t matter that it was broad daylight, or that she was a married woman. She wanted him to go on kissing her. She wanted to feel his hands on her, his warm skin pressed against hers.

  As if reading her mind, he kissed her again and again. And he kept on kissing her until the giddiness in her head spilled over and made her laugh with the joy of it. Her lips parted, and their tongues touched and delved and explored with eagerness.

  Never had she imagined that anything could feel as right and good. But the kiss was not enough. She wanted more. She wanted . . . wanted . . . An elusive desire teased the corners of her mind as sweet languidness spread through her body.

  Her head sank back; she lay in the circle of his arms with heaving breasts and trembling hands. He cupped her chin in one broad hand and tilted her face. With feather-light kisses he caressed her brows and cheekbones and the curve of her bottom lip.

  She sighed with pleasure. Boldly, she touched his exposed chest, running her fingers over the lean, hard sinew, feeling the silken smooth surface of bronzed skin over muscle and bone. His chest was hairless, the curves of his shoulder a marvel of coiled and graceful brawn.

  He groaned.

  “Shall I stop?” she asked shyly.

  “Ku. No—don’t stop. Touch this man where you will.”