Cherokee Storm

by Janelle Taylor

  As they kissed, the urgency became deeper. She wanted to tell him to stop. She didn’t want to waste a moment of the ecstasy so close at hand. But the words didn’t come, and she couldn’t stop herself. Shannon wrapped her arms around his neck and moved against his hand until her world burst into shards of pleasure.

  She buried her face in his shoulder, breathing hard. But to her surprise, her need seemed to be even greater now. Nothing would satisfy her but the feeling of him bursting inside her. “Now,” she whispered, pushing down his loincloth.

  She didn’t know what made her so bold. Was the end of their life at hand?

  Storm Dancer tore away the leather binding and sprang hard and hot against her leg. She closed her eyes, guiding him over her, into her.

  A rush of relief filled her as he pressed her into the soft moss of their makeshift bed. Then the urgency began to build again. She lifted her hips to meet his thrusts, crying out in the morning air, as her muscles contracted and the very fiber of her being peaked and fell.

  Shannon caressed his bare buttocks, encouraging him as he thrust hard, faster. Certain she was spent, she was shocked to feel the heat inside her flame up yet again.

  This time they shuddered in unison, and at last, she felt fully satisfied as she had never felt before in her life.

  Chapter 21

  Shannon lay back on the thick moss and smiled as she watched Storm Dancer bathing in the spray from the spring bubbling out of the rock wall. How beautiful he was, she thought. Her man. Surely God could not have created a more perfect mortal. Muscles rippled on his back and arms and long hard thighs beneath smooth bronzed skin. His legs were perfectly proportioned, his shoulders wide, his wet hair a cascade of black silk.

  What kind of wanton was she that she could take such pleasure in a man’s body when she was in mourning for her newly deceased father? Three times in broad daylight? The doors of hell must loom wide for her. She was both an adulterer and a shameless daughter.

  What had passed between her and Drake—their sham marriage—counted for nothing. Not even a saint could blame her for casting off a union with a child murderer. But for Storm Dancer, it was different. He wasn’t free, and that mattered more than the color of their skins or what language he spoke. Whether he was heathen or not, he had his own religion and beliefs. He was already married.

  She had sinned. She had stolen what belonged to another. There could be no lasting happiness built on another’s woman’s pain. No matter how much she wanted to go with Storm Dancer, to turn her back on the English world, to make his people her people, she could not. Whoever that other woman was, Storm Dancer was hers.

  She couldn’t blame what had happened on fear or hysteria. He had not seduced or forced her. She had given herself to him willingly. And, heaven help her, she would do it again. But when they left this glorious spot to return to the Cherokee village, she would never find ecstasy in his arms again.

  Somehow, she would find her way east and begin to build her life again. For so long, that had been the fate that she’d dreaded, but now everything had changed. She could never go back to Green Valley, and she couldn’t remain with Storm Dancer. She had no choice but to return to an English world that had never welcomed her.

  She wasn’t afraid of hard work. She could find employment in any tavern. But she would never give her heart to another man, and she would never marry. So long as she drew breath, she would consider this man her true husband. And when she passed from this world to the judgment at heaven’s gate, she would gladly pay the price for her sin.

  She rolled onto her back and gazed up at the sky. Eden must have been like this, she thought, so green, and fresh, the air scented with the sweet smell of violets, evergreens, and wild mint. Far above the treetops, white clouds drifted in an azure sky. When she was a child, her father had pointed out the shapes of ships and animals and angels in the snowy puffs. She’d believed Da could work magic, changing the shapes to please her. Today, she needed no fairy magic to make her heart sing. The clouds were perfect in their own form, slowly moving across a vast heaven.

  She had been through hell in the last weeks. She had killed a man, possibly two, she had survived starvation and a madwoman, and she had fled from certain death. Here, she would restore herself and find the strength to do what must be done. So long as she’d had Flynn and the promise of a half sister or brother, she hadn’t been alone in the world. But she had lost them. She had only herself.

  She closed her eyes and might have slipped into sleep except for the brush of soft butterfly wings on her forehead and nose and cheeks. “What are you—” she began, and then broke into giggles as she saw Storm Dancer standing over her, showering her with violet petals.

  Laughing, he flung himself down beside her and drew her into his arms. “What am I to do with you, woman?” he teased. “You have hair as yellow as the yolk of a duck egg and skin as white as snow. Your eyes are round, and—”

  She placed her hands on his damp chest and pretended to push him away. “Are you saying I’m ugly?”

  “I cannot tell. You are a witch, and it may be that you can turn into any form that you wish.”

  “I’m no witch.”

  “You must be,” he insisted. “You’ve cast a spell over me. I cannot say if you are more beautiful than a sunset or as wrinkled as a toad. My eyes are blinded. You hold my soul in the palm of your hand.”

  “A toad? You’ve been making love to a toad?”

  He caught her hand and kissed her knuckles, then turned it over to trail kisses over her palm and up the underside of her wrist. In one move, he rolled her onto her back and pinned her to the moss. “Now you are my prisoner, toad witch.”

  She giggled and entwined her legs with his. The heat of his thighs warmed hers, and desire stirred. She nipped his bare shoulder with her teeth and arched against him, reveling in the length and power of his body. “I don’t believe you,” she said between kisses. “You are the one who has cast a spell over me.”

  She gasped as she felt the first caress nudging at her woman’s folds. Instinctively, she opened to receive his thrust. It was wrong what they were doing. She knew it was wrong, but she couldn’t help herself. She wanted him inside her so badly, needed him. And soon she could never have him again.

  They moved together, giving and taking, sharing the ancient dance of love. Faster and faster, harder, deeper, until the tension inside her exploded in a cascade of shooting stars and she cried out in her sweet, sweet release. Another two powerful thrusts, and he groaned as he found his own climax. Panting, sweat sheened, he cradled her in his arms and murmured love names into her ear as they drifted back to earth together.

  Later, when reason returned and she could speak again, she grasped his hand and kissed it as he had kissed her. But when she turned his lean hand over, she saw the mark on his palm and felt a rush of compassion. “A scar,” she murmured. “What caused—”

  He chuckled. “I was born with that. It is not an injury.” He spoke in Cherokee now, as she realized he did most of the time, and most of the time, she understood. “A spirit sign.”

  “It looks like lightning.”

  “It does.” He sat up, pulled his hand free, and curled it into a fist. “Much trouble that mark has brought me. It’s why my mother and the council women chose Cardinal to be my wife.”

  Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. He reached over her and picked up the belt and knife that lay heaped beside her clothing. “Where did you get this?”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “My knife. Where did it come from?”

  Her mouth went dry. “Your knife? It can’t be.”

  “I noticed it missing days ago. I must have lost it at the post when I went to find you before.”

  Fear and suspicion shot through her. “What do you mean? When did you come?”

  He hefted the knife, turning it this way and that. “It’s mine. See my mark carved into the handle? The lightning bolt.”

  She drew back away fro
m him. “You lost it at Da’s trading post?”

  “I went to find you, to ask you to come away with me, but you had already gone to your white husband. Oona told me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  His features hardened. “Before I could find you, you had already chosen one of your own kind.”

  She got to her feet and began to dress hurriedly. “You’ve no right to accuse me. You married your Cardinal first. Was I supposed to wait for a married man?”

  “Married?” He stared at her. “I have no wife.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” she flung back. “Cardinal. The woman your mother chose for you.” Angry tears welled up in her eyes. “The woman you cheated on by making love to me.”

  He shook his head. “You are wrong, heart of my heart.” He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the tears away. “Do you think I could take pleasure with you, knowing I had left a wife at home?”

  “You’d not be the first husband to do so.”

  “No. Not me. I refused Cardinal. I told her that I could not marry her because I love only you.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Look into my eyes. You will see that I do not lie.”

  Not married? He wasn’t married? She began to tremble with relief. But Flynn had told her…If Storm Dancer was telling the truth, had her father lied to her? But seeing him holding the knife…the knife that had ended Da’s life sent a shiver through her. “I thought…I…” She pulled away, dropped on the soft moss, and began to tug on her shoes. “Da…That knife killed my father.”

  “You found the knife in his body?”

  “No, Oona did, or she saw it.”

  “And she said I was responsible?”

  “No, she didn’t. She…I told you, she doesn’t talk since…since the attack. But she told me without using words. She left the knife on his grave as a sign he had been killed by stabbing.”

  “And you believe that I thrust my knife into him? That I killed my friend?”

  “No, no, of course not.”

  That wasn’t possible, was it? She’d loved two men in her life. That one could have murdered the other was too cruel to accept. “It was just a shock to learn the knife was yours.” She should have remembered where she’d seen the weapon before, shouldn’t she? Had she deliberately not remembered something she didn’t want to remember?

  “I was with my father and uncle when your father was killed. I didn’t know about the raid on the post,” he said quietly. “We were on a peace mission to meet with the French Colonel Gervais. It was a trap. We escaped, and I had to escort the tribal representatives home. Then I came to warn Truth Teller about the Shawnee.”

  “And found me, instead.”

  “And found you.” Hurt showed in his dark eyes. “I would not have you believe evil of me, Shannon.”

  “No, I don’t. It was just…” A rush of guilt gripped her. “I’m sorry.”

  “There is no need. It was strange. A coincidence, and I do not believe in coincidences. There is more to this than I can see.”

  She went to the spring and washed her face and drank, and then turned to face him. “What now?” she asked.

  “Have you divorced your husband so soon?”

  She pursed her lips. “It was no real marriage. There wasn’t a priest. No religious ceremony at all. I found out something…”

  She hesitated, unsure whether she should tell him that Drake was a murderer. Where did her loyalty lie? To a man who could kill a child and skin him as though he was an animal? “I went with him because my father said that I had to.”

  Storm Dancer watched her. “And you are an obedient woman?”

  “No, not particularly. But…I thought you had a wife, and my father found out about us. He didn’t want me there with him anymore.”

  “Now, I must tell you that I am sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, my Shannon.”

  “It doesn’t matter now.” She hurried to tell him what she thought might matter most to a man. “Drake and I…We never slept together.”

  Storm Dancer arched a dark eyebrow. “It was never the sleeping part that worried me.”

  She felt her cheeks grow warm. “You know what I mean. When I found out…when I discovered what kind of man he was, I told him that the marriage was over.”

  “Did he leave your house?” His eyes grew serious. “After you argued, did he leave?”

  “We did more than argue,” she admitted. “I threatened to cut off his penis if he ever came near me again.”

  Storm Dancer laughed. “Among the Tsalagi, that would be a divorce.”

  She took both of his hands in hers. “You have to believe me. I’ve never been with any man but you. I’ve never made love to another man, and I never will.”

  He smiled at her. “Never is a long time.”

  “I mean what I say,” she declared. “What do we do now? Where are you taking me?”

  “Home, to my mother. I cannot stay with you. I must join my brothers to drive the Shawnee from Tsalagi land.”

  “You’re joining a war party? And leaving me with your mother?”

  “I have no choice. She will keep you safe.”

  “I don’t want to go there. Can’t I go to Split Cane’s village instead?”

  “My mother and my clan must recognize you as my wife. If there was no war, if I didn’t have a duty to fight to protect the Cherokee, I would gladly go away to some distant mountain to be with you alone. But you and I cannot live like that. What happens when we have children? Is it fair that a child comes into the world without family?”

  “You say I am your wife? You’re talking about children. But you’ve never asked me to marry you.” She was being foolish; she knew she was being foolish, but she felt like a feather washed along the river in a spring flood. He wasn’t asking her—he was telling her. How was he any different than Flynn, than Drake Clark? “I want to be asked.”

  “You want words. Can’t you read my heart? My soul?”

  “What makes you think your mother will like me?”

  He laughed again. “She won’t, not at first. She will do whatever she can to make your life miserable.”

  Shannon stared at him in dismay.

  “My mother is a fair woman. When she comes to know you, she will love you.”

  “What makes you so certain that she’ll ever accept me—that any of the Cherokee will?”

  “They will accept you because you are mine.” His smile became a boyish grin. “They have to—I’m the chosen one.”

  Hannah Clark placed a three-legged milking stool on the ground next to the fire-scorched cabin and sat down. She shoved her head hard into the cow’s belly, and began to squeeze the cow’s teats. Two thin streams of milk arced into the bucket.

  The house door banged open, and Hannah flinched. Heavy footsteps sounded. Hannah kept milking the cow.

  Nathan swore loudly. “What do you think you’re doin’, woman?”

  “What’s it look like?” She sat back, straightened her mobcap, and scowled at him. “And I’ll thank ye to watch your tongue. I’m a woman in mournin’ fer her dead son.”

  Nathan shuffled his big feet and knotted his callused hands into fists. “It’s what I’m sayin’, woman. Your youngest son is laid out in his coffin with pennies on his eyes. Your other boy is in pain, in what might be his deathbed, and you’re out here, calm as a dead hen, milkin’ this damned cow.”

  “Cow needs milkin’, husband.” She turned back to her chore. “Sicken and die if she ain’t milked.”

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  Betty switched her tail, and Hannah slapped her belly. “Hold still, you daughter of Beelzebub.”

  Sometimes, she couldn’t figure what the Lord had in mind, making such misery for his believers. They’d come home from Fort Hood to find their cabin standing, their barn burned to the ground. One beautiful son lost, the other with his face scarred and near blind, and this ornery beast come back. It didn’t seem a fair trade.
>
  If the house still stood, wouldn’t they all have had a better chance at surviving if they’d just remained here on the farm? Maybe her son would be alive if they had never left Green Valley.

  She glanced back at Nathan. “Ye think I don’t know our Damon is in that pine box? Who washed him and dressed him and bound up his jaw so it wouldn’t hang open? And who cut out Drake’s ruined eye and sewed up his back and head? Not you.”

  “Women’s work.”

  “Women’s work, all right.” She peered into the bucket to see how full it was. What was it about a man that they always needed to talk a thing into the ground. Hadn’t it been hard enough to have her boys carried home, one dead, one half dead? “The way I see it, Nathan Clark, men make the misery in this world and women clean up the mess.”

  He began to huff and puff. She knew without looking at him that his face was red as a Boston beet and all swollen. “You mind how you talk to me,” he warned.

  “What you gonna do, Nathan? Punch me? Go ahead. I been hit before. But all the yellin’ and all the hittin’ won’t change the fact that you dragged us out here to these godforsaken mountains. We left a good farm behind, a farm where nobody came in the night and burned your barn—where no wild Injuns drove off your livestock.”

  “We came for the land. Those acres were worn out. This land will—”

  “I’ve heard enough about your land. It’s my sons I’m grievin’ over. Who insisted them boys to go with the redcoats? Drake and Damon are farmers, not soldiers. Soldiers get paid for huntin’ hostiles. But no, you had to fire them all up. So if our Damon is dead, you can take a big share of the fault for it.”

  “Hannah, don’t blame me.”

  “I do. Lord knows, I do. You never treated Damon right. He weren’t the son you wanted. It was all Drake, Drake, Drake. Now, Damon’s gone, I ’spose you’re happy. Drake will inherit it all.” She looked around. “All this.”

  “Let the cow be. Your son’s cryin’ in pain. He needs more laudanum.”

  “Too much will kill him just as much as them wounds. He’s hurtin’, sure. But I don’t think he’s dyin’. And folks will be here for the funeral. We’ll need the milk. The cows we dragged to the fort and back won’t give much.”