White Eagle's Touch: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 2
Page 31
It was a savage kiss…and yet it wasn’t.
Her stomach twisted in response to him; her limbs refused to move, and she couldn’t think to question why this Indian would be kissing her.
In truth, there were a thousand things she should have done, a hundred things she should have uttered. She neither said nor did any of them. Instead, she stepped in closer toward the Indian, and if anything, he leaned farther down.
The kiss deepened, going from savage to sensual, and Genevieve became unable to think of anything else but those lips on her own, their feel, their warmth, their…arousal. She responded in an odd way, too, as though she had known this man all her life, as though this man were some titled English gent, as though this man belonged to her and she had every right to—
He broke off the kiss, and Lady Genevieve stood still for a moment, not able to move, not able to produce one coherent thought.
She noted that somehow her hands had found their way onto his chest, that somehow she had drawn in even closer to him, that—
“You see,” the Indian broke into her thoughts, “I was right. This white woman is a woman with no honor.”
She stared at him for several moments. It was a long time before she could speak, and then she only uttered, “Oh!”
She backed up then, but her gaze never left him, and she wondered what she should do. She felt suddenly as though she should return the insult with cutting words of her own or, failing that, at least shove him away. But she did neither.
Glancing down, Lady Genevieve lifted the hem of her dressing gown. Taking one step back, she pivoted away, fleeing the cabin in a fluidity of motion that would have rivaled the swift descent of a hawk, the swish of her dressing gown the only echo of her distress.
But one thought kept coming back to haunt her as she fled down the steamship’s corridor: she had never been more excited in her life.
Not in all of her twenty years so far on this earth had she ever felt more exhilarated, more alive. And she was terribly afraid it all had something to do with the Indian. In truth, she was certain of it.
The course of true love is running anything but smooth for Travis and Kitty.
Love and Glory
© 2012 Patricia Hagan
The Coltrane Saga, Book 3
Together at last, Kitty Wright and Travis Coltrane are married and rebuilding her North Carolina farm. But despite his love for Kitty and his son, Travis is not one to be content behind a plow. And when President Grant asks him to be a government emissary to Santa Domingo to explore establishing military bases there, Travis cannot resist the lure of adventure.
Kitty is heartbroken but tries to understand. Then an old nemesis shows up—Luke Tate. He has always desired Kitty and abducts her, taking her West. When Travis returns to find Kitty gone, he places his son in the care of a friend, then goes after Tate, only to be told that Kitty is dead.
It is only much later, when he sees Kitty working in a hospital, that he realizes she is not dead, but is suffering from amnesia after a severe beating. She does not know who he is…does not know who she is.
With love, patience, and pure stubbornness, Travis is determined to regain the one thing he can’t live without—Kitty’s love.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Love and Glory
He was tall and built well, firm, corded muscles glistening as the merciless sun beat against his bare back. Hard, lean thighs strained against tight denim pants as he doggedly followed the plow. The plodding mule struggled, pulling the plow through the dry, parched earth. Insects flitted annoyingly around man and beast. No breeze stirred, and the oppressive heat hung like a shroud.
Damn, it was hot. Travis Coltrane could feel his bare skin tingling, knew that already the sun was searing his flesh. But he would not burn. Before long, his skin would be the color of leather. Travis was a French creole, and naturally dark-skinned. He would only become darker. Sweat trailed down his forehead and into his gray eyes, stinging. He wiped the salty moisture away with one hand, ignoring the burning in the open blisters of his fingers and palms. Some were already bleeding from the rough, splintered wooden plow handles. It was this way every spring when he first began the plowing, but soon the blisters would close and become hard.
Suddenly the plow lurched sharply, hitting a mound of earth, and even as Travis saw the swarming wasps and realized he had hit an underground nest, the angry horde was upon him. He quickly dropped the worn reins, letting the mule trot away and escape. Travis stumbled backward, swinging his arms at the attacking wasps. Just as he felt a sharp sting on his shoulder, he ran across the field toward the bordering woods.
Reaching safety beneath the gnarled limbs of a great oak, he stared at the quickly rising welt, grateful to have been stung only once.
He leaned back against the rough bark of the trunk and breathed deeply, closing his eyes. Lord, how he hated this. He hated what he had been doing for the past two years and he dreaded what lay before him.
Two years. He shook his head, wiping at the sweat on his face. Had it really been only two years? Jesus, it seemed more like twenty. It was becoming harder and harder for Travis to remember any life other than the drudgery of the farm.
If this is all there is, he asked himself miserably, if this is what my life is all about, then why didn’t I just die in the damned war?
Gettysburg. Antietam. Bull Run. He had been in all of them, by damn. One of the best officers and riders in the whole goddamn Union cavalry. That’s what others had said about Captain Travis Coltrane, leader of the infamous Coltrane’s Raiders, feared by the Rebels and respected and admired by the Union Army.
Sitting there, in the still, hot spring day, Travis could almost smell the sulfur and smoke once more, hear the shouts and cries of his men as they charged into battle, the clanging and clashing of sabers. And he had led those men, by God. They had looked up to him and—
Bullshit.
The steely gray eyes darkened as bitterness and self-loathing washed through him. Was he on his way to becoming just like the old men who spent their days sitting in front of the courthouse in Goldsboro, telling and retelling their battle stories, each tale becoming more glorified as it was repeated? Some still wore their tattered Confederate uniforms, even four years after the war had ended.
People, he told himself, particularly old soldiers, chose to forget what was painful. And Lord, there had been so much pain in that infernal war. Now that it was safely in the past, it was all glory.
Was he becoming just like them, sitting here beneath a tree and staring at the empty fields and hating his life so much? Would he waste the rest of his life longing for remembered glories?
He lifted his gaze to the heavens as though there might be an answer somewhere up there. Why did it have to be this way? Year after year of coddling that goddamn ground, planting tobacco and corn and praying for rain, praying the insects would not come, praying for a good harvest in the fall so there would be money to get through the long winter and feed for the livestock he had managed to acquire. Was this all there was? Travis asked the sky.
He snorted with contempt. Pray! Hell, he never prayed. He just cursed life when things didn’t go the way he wanted them to. Farmers prayed over their crops. Travis did not consider himself a farmer and he never would.
He looked across the field at the little cabin he had built with his bare hands from the smoldering ruin it had been. The neighbors had burned down the original house, for the good Southern patriots of Wayne County had not taken kindly to old John Wright marching off to fight for the North.
Now there were two rooms. It wasn’t much, but Travis still felt pride over what he’d managed to do with the ruins. He had done it all alone, with sweat and grit. He had cut the oak trees, sawed them into planks, then smoothed the surfaces that would be on the inside. The results had been worth his hard work, for the interior walls shone brilliantly with the natural beauty of the blond oak wood.
He had done the same with the floors, not wanti
ng Kitty or John to risk stepping on a rough, splintery surface.
A room for sleeping and loving. A room for cooking and living. And a little porch off the back, covered in twisting morning-glory vines, where they could sit and watch the sun go down…while holding hands and dreaming of what they hoped the future would hold for them.
For now, that’s all there was, but by God, when there was enough money, he was going to make it bigger and better, because John and Kitty deserved so much more than a two-room cabin.
John.
He grinned, thinking of the little boy who looked so much like him that Travis sometimes thought he was looking at himself age three. But, he thought, John wasn’t himself. He had Kitty’s spirit, but seemed not to have inherited either of his parents’ horrible temper. He was a serene child, a little too adult, perhaps, for his age. But he was accustomed to amusing himself, playing games in the corner of the kitchen. There were few children John’s age in Goldsboro, and since the neighbors had never forgiven John Wright, for whom the boy was named, it was just as well that the child had been kept apart from those neighbors and their hatred.
His face softened as his thoughts turned to Kitty. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. Just thinking about her, he felt the familiar stirring in his loins. How good it was to hold her, be inside that tender, always eager, woman-flesh.
Kitty. His woman. His wife. The mother of his son.
White Eagle’s Touch
Karen Kay
Two worlds. Forbidden love.
Blackfoot Warrior, Book 2
Katrina Wellington is vexed. She must marry to obtain the rest of her inheritance. But her uncle, who left her in New York with a governess to make his fortune out West, has suddenly decided he must approve of her fiancé before he will loosen the purse strings to her dowry.
Swallowing her outrage, the socialite treks to the same wilderness that claimed her parents’ lives years ago. Some small part of her is crestfallen that her uncle is not waiting with open arms. Only three guides, Indian guides, await her, and one of them is far too handsome for his own good.
At first, White Eagle does not like the spoiled, willful niece of the white trader. When he catches a glimpse of the vulnerability behind her prickly exterior, he can’t resist challenging the dazzling beauty to rediscover her true inheritance—the inner strength bequeathed to her by her parents.
Close contact on the trail soon arouses a soul-stirring passion and in its turn, love. But love may not be enough to sustain a relationship that is forbidden in both their worlds.
This book has been previously published.
Warning: Contains a captivating passion that could lead to a romantic evening spent in the company of one’s own love.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
White Eagle’s Touch
Copyright © 2012 by Karen Kay
ISBN: 978-1-60928-975-1
Edited by Sasha Knight
Cover by Angela Waters
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Original Publication: May 1998
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: April 2012
www.samhainpublishing.com
Table of Contents
Dedication
Note to the Reader
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
About the Author
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