With a groan, he swept her up in his arms. Her head fell back, her hair trailing almost to the ground. She felt his lips against her throat, and desire shot through her. She arched to lock her hands behind his neck.
“This night,” he said. “This night. No more.”
“This night,” she repeated. “Our night.”
He carried her into the forest. Low-growing boughs brushed her head and arms. She buried her face in his chest as he began to run with her. “Trust me.”
“Always,” she said. She didn’t care. To be here, in his embrace, that was all that mattered. Yesterday…tomorrow…nothing mattered but this moment.
Storm Dancer slowed and climbed a steep slope. “Here,” he said. He lowered her to her feet and clasped her hand. Lifting a heavy pine bough, he led her into a small, round shelter, only half enclosed. Moonlight streamed through the open walls.
“What is this place?” she asked.
He silenced her with a kiss, and pulled her down onto a wide, soft bed of the softest furs she had ever felt. She shivered in the night air, more with apprehension than cold. “I will warm you,” he said as he cast off his own garments.
In seconds, they were lying breast to breast, arms and legs intertwined, light and dark hair tangled together. She tilted her face and kissed him, and all doubts fled. This was where she belonged, where she had to be. Of all the men in the world, this was the one God had intended her to find.
Powerful hands stroked and caressed her body, cupping her breasts, and sliding down to cup her buttocks one after another. Sweet hot kisses sent spirals of bubbling excitement to her core. She clung to him, savoring his lean, hard fingers, and the thrust of his hips against hers.
His sex was hot against her thighs, and he brought her hand down to touch him. “Are you sure?” he asked.
Her heart thudded as she closed her fingers around him. He groaned in pleasure. “Wait,” he said, rolling her onto her stomach.
She gasped as he lifted the weight of her hair and kissed the nape of her neck, before trailing damp, warm kisses down the hollow of her spine. Stretching out beside her, he turned so that she was cradled against him and his fingers had free access to her breasts and belly…to the nest of curls on her mound.
Shannon cried out as he slipped those seeking fingers lower, stroking, rubbing, teasing. “Please…” she begged. Need made her brazen. She would die if he didn’t quell the aching burning within her. “I want…”
She rolled away from him onto her back and he lowered his head and nuzzled her breast. Her nipples hardened and shivers of pleasure tugged at her loins. She opened her thighs, welcoming the length and weight of him.
He caught her nipple between his teeth and then drew it into his mouth. The sensation was beyond belief. She gasped and cried out as he kissed and laved first one nipple and then the other. She bucked against him, needing the hard thrust of his body, but still he denied her.
Nuzzling, nipping, licking, he moved lower, spreading her thighs to kiss her woman’s folds. His tongue…She could feel his tongue…caressing…tasting…delving.
She climaxed in an explosion of bursting stars and a rainbow of colors, not once, but over and over. And when she thought that nothing could be sweeter, she felt him press his swollen shaft between her damp thighs.
“Yes, yes!” she cried.
There was a brief hesitation and then a sharp pain. She felt him press deeper, and the hurt was replaced by a greater sense of urgency. She arched her hips, felt him plunge deeper, and then caught the rhythm, and they moved together. Nothing she had ever dreamed of or imagined could have captured the glory of this union. It went on and on until she thought she would shatter into a thousand points of light, until she heard him groan, his whole body stiffen, and then she felt the hot rush of his seed inside her. Once more, twice, he plunged before her own climax came in a flood of glory.
He held her then, kissing her face, her eyelids, her lips, and murmuring to her in the Cherokee tongue. She understood not a word, but it didn’t matter. Exhausted mentally and physically, she fell back into the deep nest of furs and drifted first on a silver current of sheer exhilaration and finally into peaceful slumber.
Flynn’s hand closed over the stock of his rifle as someone slipped under the blanket beside him. “Who’s—”
“Shhh.” A low giggle. “Are you cold, Truth Teller?”
The voice sounded familiar to him. “Feather Blanket?” Easily, he switched to Cherokee. “What are you doing, girl?” She slid lower, fumbling for his pizzle. He felt her warm face pressed against him and the natural response of his body to sweet woman flesh.
“Stop that, woman. Get out of there.” She was as slippery as an eel.
She giggled. Near them, one of the blanket-wrapped forms chuckled.
“Feather Blanket,” he whispered. “You can’t do that.”
She grasped him, and he felt himself harden even more.
Flynn threw off the blanket, peeled her off him, and stalked outside. Amusement rippled around the common sleeping area. He heard footsteps behind him, and felt the fool. There was no way he could get out of this without betraying his wife or giving the Cherokee something to talk about for years.
“You can’t come on a man that way,” he protested, fighting back his natural instinct. Damn, but she smelled good. He pushed back thoughts of her warm thighs and breasts as firm as ripe apples. “Besides, I have a wife. Oona would lift my scalp if she found I was sleeping with you.”
She placed a soft hand on his cheek. “Do not be angry, Truth Teller. You know I mean no harm. Last time you came, we—”
“That was a mistake. It should never have happened.”
She lay her head against him. “I did not please you? I thought I pleased you.” She ran her fingers down his inner leg and his breath quickened.
“Cut it out, I say.” He swallowed hard. “Yes, you pleased me,” he admitted. “But I’m a married man with a grown daughter. ’Tis an example a man must set for his household. I can’t be rolling in the blankets with every pretty woman I see.”
“I thought you would bring me a present.”
It was too dark to make out the expression on her face, but he knew she was pouting. “I did. A pair of scissors. Hardly used at all.”
“I have scissors. Tallow has a mirror as big as her fist. I would like a mirror so I can see how ugly I am. Do you have such a mirror at your trading post?”
He caught one of her braids between his fingers. “You would tempt a saint, Feather Blanket. And if you’re ugly, I’m a troll. But, I’m getting too old to keep more than one woman satisfied. My spear isn’t what it used to be.”
Her laughter tinkled in the night air. “Old lovers know how to make a woman happy. Young men care only for their own pleasure. I say your spear is a mighty one.”
Flynn heard a soft thud, and Feather Blanket sighed and dropped to her knees. “None of that now. Keep your lips off my—” He broke off in midsentence as he realized she wasn’t trying to blow life back into his weary pizzle.
She fell sideways and black liquid trickled from her mouth. Flynn bent to grab her arm. Something hissed past his ear.
Abruptly, a shot rang out. Screams split the air. Flynn threw himself flat on the ground and pressed his fingers to the girl’s throat. She jerked away, kicked, and sprawled onto her stomach, the broken shaft of an arrow protruding from the base of her skull.
Dogs snarled. Another shot. Dark figures ran past the houses. Someone burst from a shelter. Flynn caught a glimpse of a tomahawk blade glinting in the moonlight. Shouts in Cherokee.
The hot sweet scent of blood filled the air.
Two more rifle shots blasted nearby.
“Kill’m all! Nits make lice!”
That wasn’t Cherokee. It was English, damn it, Flynn thought, crawling on hands and knees toward the shelter he’d just left. That was a white man. Who, it didn’t matter much. If he couldn’t get to his rifle and kit pack, he’d be as dead as
Feather Blanket before sides could be sorted out.
Cherokee men and boys poured out of the houses. Everywhere, individuals were fighting, and women and children were screaming. Flynn crawled faster, keeping his head down. Two figures struggled and fell to the ground an arm’s length away, straining and grunting. The man on top was wearing boots; the skinny legs below, Cherokee moccasins.
Flynn leaped up, thrust his knee between the white man’s shoulder blades, and seized hold of his head. With one mighty effort, he twisted the attacker’s head to the left. There was a sharp crunch, and he went limp. Flynn yanked the body aside.
“Spawn of a soul sucker,” gasped the old man.
“Are you hurt?” Flynn asked. He knew the elder by his wheezing voice. He was a councilman named Walks His Elk.
The old man moaned and pushed himself to a sitting position. “Better now.” Blood oozed from a gash on his forehead and one wrist hung as though broken. He reached over with his good hand and snatched a hunting knife from the dead white man’s fingers.
“Stay down,” Flynn advised. “Play ’possom. I’ve got to get to my gun.”
“Bear shit!” Walks His Elk grabbed a lean-to post for support and pulled himself to his feet. “I may be old, but I’m not dead yet.” Swaying, knife in hand, he staggered off, uttering a thin Cherokee war cry.
Inside the sleeping shelter, all was pandemonium. Panicked people ran headlong in all directions, snatching up children and hunting for weapons. Belongings were scattered everywhere, and it was hard for Flynn to reckon just where he’d left his stash.
Someone had thrown a fur over the fire pit to douse the light, leaving the hut in total blackness. The fur scorched on the coals, sending up choking clouds of smoke. Frantically, Flynn scrambled through discarded blankets for his rifle and powder horn.
Pain ripped across the palm of his hand. Cursing, he reached down with his right hand and came up with a bone-handled skinning knife. The hilt was cut in an X pattern, and he recognized it at once. No wonder it sliced through his hand so easily. The blade was tempered Spanish steel, one he’d sold last spring to a woman named Painted Turtle. The cut was deep. He could feel blood running down his palm and wrist, but he had no time to bind it up.
Not if he wanted to live long enough to see sunlight….
More shots came from outside in the street. Flynn twisted to peer in that direction, and as luck would have it, he saw the big man in buckskin running at him an instant before the rifle barrel flashed. Flynn flung himself sideways, grabbed the rifle as the rifleman’s charge took him halfway through the shelter, and twisted it from his opponent’s hands. The man tripped over something on the dirt floor, swore, and went down. Flynn reversed the rifle and brought the butt down across his head, splitting it like a melon.
“Shame on ye, to use such language when you’re about to meet your maker,” Flynn said.
Winded, he sat down hard. His heart was pounding and his head didn’t feel too good either. He put a hand up to his temple, and his fingers came away wet. He didn’t know what he’d done to make him so tired. He leaned over and vomited. Damn if his right arm was feeling numb and heavy, his fingers all tingly. The arm ached something fierce, and he wondered if that rifle ball had struck him after all.
Another shot rang out, but it sounded farther away. Most of the yelling had stopped. There was a strange buzzing in his ears, loud as a nest full of hornets. His breathing was still off too. Seems like he had to struggle to take a breath.
It was then that he remembered Shannon. His girl. She was here…someplace. She had to be. “Shannon? Shannon, darlin’, where…”
Flynn’s head sagged forward and the rifle rolled out of his limp fingers.
Shannon opened her eyes. “Storm Dancer?” She felt around. He was gone. It was still dark, but the mist had closed in around their sanctuary. The moon hung low in the sky. Where was he? Why had he left her alone?
She heard several loud pops, and leaped to her feet. A dog howled. Frightened, she pulled a blanket around herself and went to the entrance of the shelter. “Storm Dancer?”
The figure of a man in a slouch hat appeared, silhouetted against the darker trees.
“There you are.” She let out a sigh of relief. “I thought you’d left me here without a stitch to put on.”
And then, before he uttered a word, she knew something was wrong. That wasn’t a Cherokee turban. It was a white man’s head covering. Her breath caught in her throat.
“Well, well, well. Ain’t this pretty.”
The stranger’s words cut through her like ice. A strong cloud of chewing tobacco, sour sweat, and whiskey enveloped her. Whimpering in fear, she backed away, clutching her fur covering.
“Don’t run away, little squaw. Simon Chew has something special fer you, gal. Something big.”
Chapter 10
“Stay where you are, gal. Don’t try to run out on Simon before all the fun.”
Shannon darted out the far side of the hut. The man lunged after her, grabbing the fur and tearing it away, leaving her naked. She had no time to think, only to run. Fog lay on the ground, so heavy that she couldn’t see three steps ahead of her. The way was steep, downhill, and outcroppings of rock and loose scree made her footing treacherous, but she didn’t hesitate.
“Come back here, you little devil!” he yelled.
A stone turned under her foot, twisting her knee, but she ignored the pain. She could hear him behind her, cursing, and sliding on rock. A pine tree loomed ahead of her. She dodged it, tripped over an exposed root, and abruptly the earth gave way.
Screaming, she tumbled through thin air.
She landed hard on her side but rolled onto her stomach, scrambled onto her hands and knees, and crawled forward into what felt like a thicket of blackberries. Seconds later, she heard her assailant cry out as he took the same plunge. She heard a heavy thud and then a groan. Curses split the air, oaths too vigorous to come from a dead man.
Thorns cut into her skin and ripped at her hair, but Shannon crept forward until she found her way was blocked by a stump and a tangle of underbrush. Unable to move, she dropped flat on her stomach and lay motionless, a hand clamped over her mouth to hide the sound of her ragged breathing.
“You broke my leg, you red bitch!”
Mistress Klank had possessed a greater range of swear-words than either her husband or any of their rough trade, but the man in the slouch hat put her to shame with the originality of his verbal arsenal.
Shannon went cold as she heard the ominous click of a hammer and knew that the lout had cocked his gun. She pressed her face into the leaves as a long rifle blasted. The lead ball hissed through the bushes over her head, whining like an angry wasp, snapping vines and twigs, and plowing into the tree stump.
A string of rank oaths, the acrid smell of black powder, and the unmistakable sound of another ball being tamped down a gun barrel made Shannon push her body deeper into the dirt and rotting leaves.
“I’ll blow your futterin’ brains out!”
She clenched her eyes shut. Holy Mary, mother of God, help me—
Every sound, every scent seemed magnified. The earth beneath her body smelled of rotting bark and green shoots. Very clearly, she could hear the faint chatter of a squirrel and the rustle of a bird’s wing. The sounds were so strangely melodic that she wondered if the rifle bullet had hit her, and if she was dead already. But the fear that had numbed her drained away so that she could feel the sting of thorns on her skin, and she knew she still lived. There was no pain in heaven.
And then, clearly, came another light thud, so stealthy that her first thought was that a great mountain cat had dropped from a tree in search of an easy meal. Gravel grated underfoot, and her attacker shrieked in alarm. His shout changed to a scream that quickly became a chilling gurgle and then silence.
She bit down on her lower lip so hard that she tasted blood. At any second she expected to hear the crunch of bone as the lion devoured his kill.
&
nbsp; “Shannon.” Storm Dancer’s voice!
A flame of hope leaped in her chest. “I’m here.”
“Come out.”
“That man…”
“He will harm you no more. Come. The village is under attack.”
Slowly, painfully, briars tearing at her flesh, she wiggled backward out of the thicket. Storm Dancer snatched her up from the ground and wrapped his strong arms around her, crushing her against him. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m all right,” she assured him breathlessly. Her body was scratched and bleeding in a dozen spots, but it didn’t matter. She was alive. “I ran. He didn’t catch me.” She glanced down at the dark form sprawled on the edge of the ledge and the darker pool gathering on the grass.
“You are safe?” Storm Dancer demanded, releasing her.
Faintly, from the direction of the village, she could hear shouts and screams amid the rifle shots. “Who? Why—”
“No time.” He thrust a bundle into her arms. “Stay here. I must go to help my people.”
“You left me. Why did—”
“I went to bring your clothes. We left them at the edge of the cornfield.”
She clutched her cape and skirt against her bare breasts. “Don’t leave me,” she begged. “Not with him.” She glanced toward the motionless body. “I can’t stay here with—”
Storm Dancer muttered something in Cherokee, walked to the corpse, and kicked it over the edge. Far below, bone crunched against rock, making Shannon wince. “Stay here,” he repeated, thrusting the dead man’s rifle and powder bag into her hands. “Until it is safe. I will come for you.” He turned from her and scrambled back up the rocks toward the hut.
“But what if you don’t?” Shannon quickly pulled on the Indian garments. “What if…”
She trailed off, realizing that he could no longer hear her. He was gone, perhaps forever.
Cherokee Storm Page 11