Shivers of delight ran through her. How could a man’s body feel so hard and yet so soft at the same time? What brazen woman could find such joy in fondling him?
“Kiss me,” he commanded.
This time, she knew to part her lips. This time, she met his passion with a blend of innocence and tantalizing sensuality. And when he filled her mouth with his hard tongue, she welcomed him, and reveled in the spirals of ecstasy that drove all modesty, all restraint from her mind.
His hands were on her, sliding down her back and over her buttocks, molding her against him. And breathless, shaken by the force of the electricity that leaped between them, she made no resistance when he picked her up and carried her to the bed.
“Is this wrong?” she asked him, as he leaned over her.
“Does it feel wrong?”
“No, no,” she protested. “It feels more right than anything I’ve ever known.”
His fingers found the hem of her Indian gown and raised it to her thigh. She gasped as his strong hand touched her bare leg.
“Shall I stop, Becca?” he asked. His dark eyes were heavy lidded with desire. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No,” she said. “No.” The heat of the fire had leaped to her loins as his lips brushed the place his fingers had touched.
“Oh,” she cried. His tongue traced tiny circles on her inner thigh.
“Do you like that, Becca?” he asked.
“Yes, yes.” It was hard to breathe. She tossed her head from side to side, not understanding the need that drove her beyond reason. “Make love to me,” she whispered. “Please, make me a woman.”
“But you are a woman,” he replied. “The most vital woman this man has ever known.” His hand moved higher to brush her nether curls and she gasped with surprise as warm dampness seeped from her cleft.
“Trust me,” he said. And he took her hand in his and pressed it against the hard length of muscle beneath his loincloth. “Trust me.”
Chapter 17
All shame and modesty was lost as Rebecca gave herself over to the pleasure of Talon’s touch, of his whispered endearments, and her emotional fulfillment of finally being desired by a man. She closed her eyes and made no protest when he slipped her dress over her head. Her stays and stockings followed, until she lay beneath him clad only in her unbound hair.
“Why are you afraid?” he asked her. Trembling, she opened her eyes and looked full into his face. “I’m not,” she lied.
“You are so beautiful.” He traced the outline of her lips with one fingertip with a touch so light she might have imagined it. “So pale and so beautiful.”
“And you,” she echoed. It was true. His blue-black hair, his bronzed skin, his eyes as deep and dark as the night sea made Simon’s fairness seem a fault. Surely, God’s first man, Adam, must have strode the Garden of Eden with glowing, honeyed limbs and flashing midnight eyes. Talon was as hairless as a youth, but there was nothing of the boy about him. His lean, muscled neck, his powerful chest, his hips and legs as hard and smooth as any dancer’s revealed his manhood with every movement.
“My sky-eyed Becca,” he murmured. “I have always wondered how a human sees out of blue eyes.” His hands were moving over her, making delightful sensations run through her body.
“I see well enough,” she teased, “to know a seducer when—”
“Is that what this man is?” His fingers drew an imaginary line along her collarbone. “Am I a seducer?”
She sighed with pleasure. “That or a sorcerer. You have bewitched me.”
“Perhaps it is this haunted valley.”
“Perhaps,” she murmured.
They kissed again, their twentieth or hundredth caress. She dind’t know or care. His fingers now were cupping her breast, stroking and teasing first one and then the other, until her nipples tingled and grew hard, and she could not lie still under his touch.
And then, when she thought he could not surprise her again, he did. He lowered his head and took one aching bud between his lips, drawing such sweet sensations from her that she cried out and arched her back, pulling him ever closer.
“Oh,” she cried.
“Do you like that?” he asked huskily.
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I never knew a man . . .” She left the rest unspoken. He was suckling at her breast again—like a baby, but not like any baby. She hadn’t known that men did that with women . . . hadn’t known or guessed how wonderful it would feel.
“You have such beautiful breasts,” he said. “I want to touch them . . . lick them . . . drink the nectar from your buds.”
“Yes . . . yes.”
Long, lean fingers teased the folds of flesh at the apex of her thighs, teased and gently probed within to worry the tiny knot until she was wet and slippery with desire.
“Talon,” she whispered. “Talon.” Caught up in the heat of his sensual lovemaking, she moaned and dug her fingers into his back. “Please,” she begged. “Please.”
Gently, he spread her knees apart and knelt between them. Then she felt him nudge her with the tip of his swollen sex. She thrust her hips upward, wanting him as she had never wanted anything before.
And he filled her with his love.
There was a deep tearing sensation and searing pain. Rebecca gasped as she tried to adjust to the raw hurt. He stopped and kissed her again, soothing her with soft sounds and warm fingers. He kissed her breasts and her mouth, and then slowly withdrew and slid into her again.
She caught her breath, waiting for the pain to begin again. But this time all she felt was an uncomfortable soreness.
“Becca, Becca,” he murmured. “I cannot . . .” He moved again, plunged deep and shuddered as a spasm rocked him. “Oh, Becca,” he cried.
Afterwards, he held her in his arms and kissed her face and hair. She turned her face to his chest and lay there ashamed and confused. And something more . . . something she could not explain, even to herself. She felt . . . unfinished . . . disappointed. All the wonderful excitement, all the wild longing had led to nothing more than pain and . . .
She could not look him in the eye. She had failed him, she knew it. She had failed as a woman.
“Becca, Becca,” he said, turning her face until he could look into it. “Why didn’t you tell me that your husband never—”
“Never took his rights?” She began to weeep softly.
“If I had known . . .” He trailed off. “Oh, my fox-haired Becca, it isn’t your fault. You have never known a man. Many women have pain the first time. But it will never happen again, I promise you.”
She turned face down to the blankets. She felt foolish—stupid. Yes, she’d heard that a girl had discomfort, even bled a little when her maidenhood was pierced. But she hadn’t thought that she . . . Again, she dissolved in tears.
He stretched out beside her and rubbed her back, then kissed the hollow between her shoulder blades. She sniffed and dried her eyes. Talon continued massaging her shoulders and neck, lifting the mass of her hair to brush his lips along her hairline.
In a little while, she sighed and nestled against him. His body was warm, and he made her feel safe. The soothing motion of his fingers drained the tension from her muscles, and his soft words made her lips turn up in a smile. Drowsy, she closed her eyes and listened to the wind outside. It was easier not to think, just to soak up the warmth of the fire and the man . . . to let him go on stroking her . . .
Until he kissed her lips and she found to her surprise that the excitement had not died, but was only banked like the glowing coals of a hearth, waiting for a gust of wind to ignite the fire.
This time when he kissed her breasts and teased them until they grew hard and tingling, she was brave enough to touch him in his most vulnerable places. With wonder, she discovered the power she had over him, as her fingers explored the length of his satin tumescence and the soft pouch beneath.
Talon groaned with pleasure, and she grew more brazen. Soon they were locked in an embrace so
heated that the blankets fell away and neither noticed.
This time, when he entered her, her passion was greater than the discomfort. She strained against him as his engorged shaft plunged deep within her with slow, deliberate strokes. And when he withdrew, she found that she didn’t want him to leave her. She cried out and arched against him, clutching his shoulders and murmuring sweet nothings. What seemed so strange at first became natural as she found the rhythm, moving with him . . . taking and giving joy with each thrust. Tension rose within her and she felt as though she was caught in a current that swept her faster and faster, until—
Suddenly, an invisible dam burst inside. Pinwheels of light and giddy sensations rocked her, and she cried out with unexpected bliss. She felt Talon stiffen and shudder with his own consummation, and the hot gush of his seed flowed into her womb. And then they were both floating on a lazy tide of shared contentment that lasted for what seemed forever.
“What manner of man is Simon Brandt that he would leave you untouched?” he demanded suddenly.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I always thought it was me . . . that I wasn’t . . . you know . . .”
“Never think that, never. You are the stuff of a warrior’s dreams, my Becca. The fault is Simon Brandt’s, not yours.”
“Not completely. Simon has injuries. His—”
“I know his injuries,” Talon answered harshly. “I gave them to him.”
“You?”
“We fought hand to hand, each trying to kill the other. He wounded me gravely—I did the same for him. It has always been my greatest regret that I didn’t finish him there on the riverbank.”
“If he had told me in the beginning, maybe I wouldn’t have . . .” She couldn’t finish, couldn’t defend him. In truth, Simon was the last thing she wanted to think of now.
“I am glad,” Talon said.
“Glad?”
“It warms my heart that he could not claim you as a husband—that this man should be the first to share pleasures of the mat with you.” He kissed her tenderly. “The first time is a gift from a woman to a man,” he whispered. “I thank you.”
“It was magic,” she said, “I didn’t know—”
He smiled at her tenderly. “I will teach you, my precious one. This man will show you more than you ever dreamed.” Then he rose from the bed and brought warm water to clean the smears of blood from her thighs. He rocked her against him and brushed her hair with an antler comb and then sang to her a Delaware love song until her heart was at peace.
All day they lay in bed, whispering tales of their childhood, some happy and some sad. She told him of her family in Ireland and the tragedy that followed her father’s death because of her illegitimacy. He kissed away her tears and expressed shock that such a thing could happen, and then related another funny story about his stay in Williamsburg that made her laugh. Neither mentioned Simon Brandt again, nor the trouble between white men and red, and neither mentioned what would happen when they left this place. Today, there was only Talon and Rebecca and the comfort of freely given embraces and teasing kisses.
As he promised, Talon served her, bringing roast turkey—only a little charred on the outside—to her bed with a flourish. He flavored melted snow with berries and a little maple sugar to make her a steaming bowl of tea, and shared it with her sip for sip. The sipping turned easily enough to kissing, and before either knew it, the bowl of berry tea spilled out on the plank floor and they were in each other’s arms.
And neither knew or cared that the storm raged all through the night and into the following morning.
By that evening, after two days of passionate lovemaking, the two discovered that the storm had blown itself out. The clouds cleared away and the velvet blue sky was strewn with stars. Rebecca and Talon dressed in their warmest clothes and walked out into the cold, still night together. The pristine snow lay in heaped drifts, as high as Rebecca’s head. Everything was still; no birdcall or animal cry disturbed the forest solitude.
The frozen woods seemed vast and a little frightening to Rebecca. “Is this valley really haunted, do you suppose?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. But I do not think the ghosts will hurt us. We have not come to disturb their rest.”
She stepped closer to him and his hand clasped hers. For a long time, they stood there, not speaking, then he turned and led her back inside.
Hanging on one wall of the cabin was a pair of snowshoes. Talon took them down, tested the thongs, and made ready to go hunting. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but this man is tired of turkey. The deer will be herded up in the deep snow. I’ll find us some tender venison. You stay near the fire and keep warm.”
She knew that what he said made sense, but it was hard to let him go. Alone, she might begin to think, and she wanted to avoid that at all costs. “Will you be gone long?” she asked. It was a foolish question. A hunt took as long as it took. No hunter could say for certain how far he would have to search for game or if his shot would fly true. “Be careful.”
He smiled at her. “Men lie low in such weather, and the bears are all sleeping. So long as I don’t break a leg or lose my way, I’ll come back to you.”
His teasing was little comfort. She sat by the hearth and waited for an hour or two or three, jumping at every rustle of a mouse or creak of the ice melting on the chimney. She paced the floor nervously, and made up the bed, then stripped away the covers and went outside to break pine boughs to make a mattress. Red cheeked and shivering, she carried them in, beat them against the floor to shake off the snow, heaped them on the sleeping platform.
When the covers were in place once more, she hit upon the idea of making a checkerboard and playing pieces. Using a burned stick from the fireplace, she drew squares on the table, then patiently cut sections from pine branches to use as checkers. Half she left natural, half she colored with charcoal to make them black. She was just lining them up in their places when she heard Talon’s shout of greeting.
He’d brought home venison as he’d promised. A yearling buck lay across his shoulders. He carried the field-dressed animal inside and hung it by the front legs to a wooden peg wedged in a rafter near the door. “I’d leave it outside,” he said, “but I’m afraid it would draw wolves. Two followed me back.”
She brought him water to wash and listened to his story of how he’d found the deer and picked his quarry. He’d killed it instantly with a single shot, he explained. He would have gotten back sooner, but the weight of the animal made it difficult to walk in the snowshoes.
While he held his hands to the fire, Rebecca sliced the liver and propped pieces on green sticks over the coals. They talked and laughed as the rich smell of roasting venison permeated the small cabin.
Then Rebecca remembered something that had troubled her. “Your sister,” she said. “When we were running away from the militia, we fell down an embankment. Siipu’s mask twisted aside. Talon.” She looked at him meaningfully. “Talon, Siipu’s face is as smooth as mine. She isn’t scarred by the fire. So why does she wear the mask?”
He shook his head and sighed. “Losing our mother and what happened to Siipu after—what the white men did to her—scarred her worse than any flames could do. She is scarred, Becca, but her scars are within. Sometimes, they are the worse, the scars another cannot see.”
“But I still don’t undertsand.”
He squeezed her hand. “My sister believes they are there,” he said. “When she looks into a pool of water, or passes a mirror, she sees the scarring on her face. For her, the burn scars are there, and no one can convince her that they’re not.”
“So she covers a scar that doesn’t exist?”
“It exists. It is real. We just cannot see it. It is why she has taken the name Losowahkun—the burned one.”
“But can’t someone convince her—”
“No, my Becca. This man has tried, her people have tried.”
“So she lives all alone with her animals.”
> “She is happy, or as happy as Siipu can be.”
“Are you sure, Talon?”
He shruggd. “Who can say about the happiness of another? Each must follow his own path. Siipu has many who love her.”
For a few minutes, silence lay between them. Then she remembered the game she’d assembled. “I made a checker game,” she told him. “Do you play?” He shook his head. “I know enough to teach you,” she said modestly. Her father had taught her when she was small, and they had often waged a war across the checkerboard that lasted for hours. Her father had been what was politely regarded as an aggressive player, and she had learned tactics from him.
“Show me your game,” he said, “and later, I will teach you how to roll bones. But I warn you, bones is a gambling game, and you must be prepared to wager something of value.”
“I’m sure,” she answered. They nibbled at the hot meat as she showed him the basic rules of checkers. He was a quick study. She won the first two games and he tied the third fairly.
“Tomorrow I will beat you,” he promised, licking his fingers clean of juices.
“Never,” she countered.
“We’ll see about that.”
He glanced at the bed. “It looks higher than before.”
“I made a mattress of pine,” she told him shyly.
“Is it soft?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we’ll have to try it, won’t we?”
He kissed her mouth and neck, and lifted her hair to whisper in her ear. She laughed and tried to turn away. He caught her and kissed her again.
Somehow, they found their way to the bed. It was softer, but they would have been just as happy on the plank floor. He made slow, tender love to her all that night, and the next morning, she watched with sleepy eyes as he carved a flute from turkey bone.
“What will you do with it when it’s finished?” she teased.
“I will do what all Shawnee men do for the women they desire. I will play such songs of longing that they will melt your heart and you will welcome me into your blanket.”
This Fierce Loving Page 18