Sundancer's Woman

by Judith E. French

  He shook his head. “I had mine earlier.” Unconsciously, she’d used the Iroquoian word for meal in the middle of an English sentence. Heaven help her if she did that in a Charles Town parlor, he thought. It would cause her no end of trouble.

  Compassion for her made him wonder if he’d done her any favors by rescuing her. She was clearly heartbroken by having to leave her boy behind, and he reckoned she’d been a better than average mother among a people who revered children as gifts of the Creator. Women did get over the loss of a child, at least he supposed they did. But she’d have much more than that to face as she tried to readjust to the white world.

  He’d been lucky. When he’d made up his mind to leave the woods and learn to live like a white man again, he’d had the good fortune to save Aaron Campbell from a Huron ambush. Not a fortnight later, Aaron’s father had repaid that favor a hundredfold when Hunt had been stricken with mumps. Old Ross Campbell had carried him home more dead than alive and welcomed him into his family. Ross was part Shawnee himself, and the two of them had fit hand in glove from the first minute they’d laid eyes on each other.

  Old Ross and his wife had dusted the worst of the wildness off him, taught him how to walk and talk like a white man. They’d insisted that he brush up on the schooling he’d left behind in his sister’s cabin, and when Ross discovered Hunt had a knack for figures, he’d taught him the basics of the trading business.

  Hunt had been nineteen or so when he came back from the West and landed at Campbell’s fort. He stayed with them for three years, first as an adopted son, and later as an employee of Ross’s far-flung trading empire. After that, he’d made several ventures into the Ohio country and Kentucky to trade guns and powder to the Indians for furs, and acted as a translator between the Shawnee and the English. He’d traveled down the Mississippi with a Cherokee friend of Aaron Campbell’s, and he’d spent a spring in Virginia as a horse trader. He still visited Ross’s family when he could, and he’d made a place for himself somewhere between the Indian and the white worlds.

  Somehow Hunt doubted it would be that easy for Elizabeth. A woman’s reputation was easily damaged, and a white girl who’d lived among the Indians had a lot to live down in the eyes of English society.

  She licked the crumbs of cornbread off her lips and wiped her mouth. “Where did you get fish in a snowstorm?”

  He grinned and couldn’t resist leaning close to wipe a stray crumb off her chin. She flinched, but she didn’t run, and again he was struck by her courage.

  “What? What are you laughing at?” she demanded. “I know I’m not pretty, but—”

  “I wasn’t laughing at you,” he said.

  She drew herself up stiffly. “It looks like it. How did you catch the fish?”

  “I caught and gutted them when I left my stuff here. I put them on a ledge behind the waterfall and they froze solid.”

  “It’s a wonder some raccoon didn’t find them.”

  “Lucky for us they didn’t,” he replied. “Corn cakes and dried meat make for a dull diet.”

  Her green eyes sparkled in the firelight. “You’ve got dried meat?”

  “I do.” He found himself smiling foolishly at her again. “But you’re not getting any now. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to hunt again.”

  She sighed with obvious regret. “I’m still hungry.”

  “I’ll put another fish on the rocks to bake.”

  She nodded, then nudged his buffalo robe with the toe of her moccasin. “What kind of fur is that?”

  “Bison. Folks mostly call them buffalo. There are great herds of them west of the Mississip.”

  “The what?”

  “Mississippi River—the big river. The buffalo graze on the grassland beyond. The forests end at the river and the prairie runs on forever. It doesn’t stop until you reach the Far Mountains.”

  “You traded for the hide?”

  “I killed the buffalo and paid a Crow Indian woman to tan and sew it for me.”

  “You’ve been there ... to these ... prairies?”

  “Aye. My father, Wolf Robe, took me.”

  “Your Indian father.”

  “Yep.” Hunt crouched Indian style on the far side of the fire. “He’s a good man, Elizabeth. You’d like him.”

  “I’ve never known any Cheyenne.” She dusted off her hands and turned her back on him. Using her fingers for a comb, she raked the tangles from her fiery red hair and braided it tightly into a single plait.

  He wondered what she’d look like with her hair freshly washed and hanging loose in the sun the way the Cheyenne girls wore their hair every morning. Would the sunlight reflect off the strands of auburn the way it did with blue-black hair?

  When she moved back to her place by the fire, she didn’t look him in the eye. He hoped she was coming to trust him, and he tried to think of something to say that would put her at ease.

  “I’ve never been to Charles Town but the once,” he said. “When I met your father.”

  “You said he’s paying a reward for me. Did he give you the money yet?”

  “Half. I only took the job because I capsized my canoe and lost my rifle and a winter’s pelts. I needed a new stake. I get the rest when you’re home in one piece.”

  She raised her head and met his gaze. “I can’t go without my son. Surely, you can understand that?”

  “I know you think that. It’s a hard thing, leaving your boy.”

  “Couldn’t you take me back? I’d do anything if you would.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and meant it. She was caught between flint and steel, and he ached for her. But one of them had to use common sense. Going back into that Seneca village would be suicide. No man could call him a coward, but neither was he a fool. He had a hell of a lot more living to do before he died. “What you’re asking, woman, it’s not possible.”

  Her lower lip quivered, but she raised her chin higher and those huge, liquid green eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Then I’d be grateful if you’d go back and get him for me,” she said softly.

  Hunt shook his head. “I can’t. No one could.”

  She stood up. “Very grateful.”

  “Elizabeth, you don’t understand. Going back there would be—” He broke off in astonishment as she grabbed the hem of her fringed gown and yanked it off over her head. Staring at her, he sucked in his breath.

  She wore nothing under the dress but leggings and moccasins. Her breasts were high and firm, not large but perfectly shaped, with flushed pink aureoles and deeper rose nipples. Her waist was as narrow as a girl’s, her belly flat above a triangle of bright auburn curls.

  “No,” he protested. “You don’t want to ...” He trailed off and swallowed. Desire knifed through him.

  She let the dress fall to the floor and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I’d do whatever you ask,” she murmured in a whiskey voice that made shivers run up and down his spine. “Anything, Hunt.” She looked up at him through thick lashes and held out her arms. “Just rescue my son, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

  Chapter 6

  Elizabeth didn’t think she could go through with it. Fear made her sick to her stomach; her skin prickled all over and seemed too tight for her body. She wanted to cry out that it was all a mistake, and cover her nakedness, but she forced her unwilling legs to take a step toward him. Hunt wanted her; she read the lust in his eyes. Indian or white, men were men, and they all wanted the same thing, didn’t they?

  Why was he hesitating? Why didn’t he just throw her down and take her? She could bear the pain, but the waiting was agony.

  He stared at her through narrowed eyes, his face as hard as the stone walls that reared around them. Was she too ugly for him? She pushed back the awful thought. Men didn’t care. They slept with Basket, didn’t they? She was old and used up from too many men, yet braves still came to her hearth place at night. What was it Raven always said? “Under a blanket all women are beautiful. If it were not true,
would Yellow Drum get children on such as you?”

  Elizabeth tried to smile. “Hunt,” she whispered desperately. Tears clouded her vision and made his face blurry. Her insides knotted into a tight ball. She had nothing but herself to offer in exchange for her children. If Hunt rejected her, she would surely die of humiliation.

  He didn’t move.

  The moment stretched into an eternity. She smelled the acrid must of the buffalo robe, heard the low hiss of the fire, saw the faint outlines of pictures scratched into the stone by people long dead and turned to dust.

  Shame enveloped her. Her hands curled tight; her nails cut into the palms of her hands. With a deep sob that came up from the bottom of her despair, she let her hands fall slack at her sides. Part of her rejoiced that she wouldn’t have to submit to Hunt’s rutting, but a deeper part recoiled from the bitter truth that no decent man would ever want her.

  “Elizabeth.”

  Her name came softly to her ears . . . no louder than the fall of a willow leaf. But his call had come too late; her courage had deserted her. She shrank back from the scorn she knew would follow, but before she could turn away, his hands were on her. She gasped as his arms tightened, molding her naked flesh to his body. She closed her eyes and went limp. She willed herself to submit to any indignity so long as it meant a chance to be reunited with her children.

  Then his thumb brushed her chin. Gently, he lifted her head, and she smelled his clean, warm breath as he brought his mouth down to graze her lips.

  “Oh,” she gasped.

  He chuckled and touched her lips again. Then, to her utter shock, he lingered there and kissed her with slow, infinite tenderness.

  Elizabeth gave a tiny cry as white heat seared her mouth and flashed over her body. Her knees lost their strength, and she swayed against him. His fingers touched her taut breast, and she groaned. Unconsciously, her arms slipped around his neck, and she pulled him closer.

  How could anything feel so wonderful? His slow, sensual caress was unlike anything she had ever known or imagined. She had dreamed that a man might kiss her ... might hold her close to his heart, but she’d never guessed that it could send rippling sensations of sweet music from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.

  He murmured her name, then kissed her again.

  Her mouth seemed to fit his perfectly. There was no awkwardness ... no hesitation. Without a single lesson, she knew instinctively to tilt her head just a little . . . to moisten her lips. And his kisses ... his kisses took her breath away.

  He held her, yet she knew that there was no force in his embrace. She could pull away if she wanted to.... And she knew she should.

  This was all wrong. She’d wanted to seduce him so that he would do her bidding. She’d wanted him to forget his objections and take her back to the village. But she’d not planned on this. She’d not expected to go all giddy and light-headed ... to be hot and dizzy and shivery all at once.

  Hunt traced the line of her lower lip with the tip of his tongue. “You’ve a mouth made for kissing,” he whispered. He sucked gently at her upper lip, and when her mouth parted slightly, he slid his tongue between her teeth.

  She turned her face away and he kissed her ear and her hair. “You ... you shouldn’t do that ...” she began, but she lost her thought as his lips pressed against her cheek and the corners of her mouth.

  Her pulse quickened; her heart thudded like a drum.

  He found her lips again, and this time when his kiss deepened, she welcomed him into her mouth. Brazenly, she entwined her tongue with his, savoring the taste and scent of him ... losing herself in the flood of sensations that threatened to drown her in waves of sensual heat.

  His fingertips teased her bare nipple and she felt it harden to a tight bud. Tension coiled in the pit of her stomach, and she moved her hips so that her aching loins pressed against his hard thigh.

  “God in heaven,” he murmured. “You sweet thing.” His breathing was as ragged as her own. He sighed and shifted his weight, trailing damp kisses from the corner of her mouth to the hollow of her throat. Her blood felt like sun-warmed honey.

  And then when she thought that nothing Hunt did could astonish her, he committed the unthinkable. He lowered his head, took her nipple between his lips, and suckled like a baby . . . . Except it didn’t feel like it had when she’d nursed her children. This... this was . . . She moaned as bright ribbons of ecstasy spilled through her veins.

  She opened her eyes and let her head roll languidly from side to side. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Nothing that Yellow Drum had ever done had made her feel anything but discomfort. He’d planted two children inside her body and she’d not known that a woman could experience such pleasure.

  “Elizabeth?” Hunt’s voice had taken on a new urgency. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

  “Yes ... yes.”

  He led her to the buffalo robe and pressed her back against the thick, coarse hair. She looked up at him as he hovered above her. His expression was gentle in the flickering yellow firelight, his eyes heavy-lidded with passion.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said.

  The lie shattered the web of illusion he’d woven around them. How dare he taunt her? she thought. A sob of frustration rose in her breast as the heat fled her body, leaving her shivering in the cool air. Clenching her eyes shut, she twisted out of his embrace and turned on her stomach. “Do it,” she said tersely. She clenched her teeth together and prepared herself for what she knew would come.

  He swore softly. “What game is this?”

  She could not bear to look at him. “Please,” she begged. “Just get it over with.”

  “Son of a bitch.” His foot struck a fist-sized rock and sent it spinning.

  She heard a slight sound, and then the weight of a wool blanket settled over her bare shoulders.

  “Cover yourself,” he spat.

  She curled into a ball, unable to raise her head ... unable to face him. He would hit her now, but she didn’t care. She didn’t even know what she’d done to make him so angry.

  “Son of a bitch,” Hunt repeated. He turned his back on her and walked away down the tunnel, as furious with himself as he was with her.

  He felt sick. He’d had no intention of accepting her bargain. He wasn’t going back for her boy, and to let her think he might was dishonest and cruel. That he was capable of such villainy—even under the circumstances—galled him.

  “Women,” he muttered between his teeth. Elizabeth’s father had trusted him to bring his daughter safely home, and he’d nearly broken that bargain as well. He stumbled on, hoping he was going the right way, too stubborn to go back for a light. Eventually, he smelled water and made his way to the edge of the underground pool. There, he dropped to his knees and splashed water on his face.

  When she’d stripped off her dress, his first thought had been to refuse her. His second thought had been to run. But his limbs wouldn’t obey his brain. He’d been drawn to her exquisite body by a primitive urge so powerful it had been impossible to ignore.

  Even after he’d kissed her ... touched her soft skin and felt the warmth of her arms around him, he’d still intended to step back and break off this unholy union. But he’d been caught in the simplest of traps—he’d let his cock do his thinking for him.

  She’d been willing. More than willing. He’d never held a woman with more capacity for loving ... or more feigned innocence. He could almost believe that she’d never been kissed before ... never had a man suck her nipples, except that she was the mother of a child. She wasn’t a green girl—she was a woman grown, a woman who’d filled a man’s needs for years.

  Hunt dunked his whole head underwater and came up sputtering. He could still see her body in his mind’s eye ... her small upthrust breasts, her smooth belly ... the tan line that rode low on her trim hips. It was evident that she’d followed Iroquois custom and worn nothing but a short shirt in summer.

  She’d known what she wa
s doing when she offered him a straightforward bargain, her body for his compliance in rescuing her boy. They’d both been enjoying themselves immensely, until something had gone wrong. What? And why had she acted so strangely and suddenly decided to put a halt to their pleasure?

  He was still hot for her, as swollen as a half-grown Cheyenne boy peering into the women’s sweat lodge. He ducked his head in the icy water again and tried to make sense of what had just happened.

  Elizabeth was a striking woman with a body to fill a man’s fantasies, but he’d seen lots of beautiful women, a goodly share of them with bare breasts. Nakedness was no sin among the Indians, and he’d grown to manhood among the Shawnee and Delaware as well as the Cheyenne. Sex was an accepted part of life. Hunt reckoned it to be a much saner philosophy than the one the English professed.

  It wasn’t like him to be so easily shaken by a woman. His father had taught him better. A warrior who couldn’t maintain control over his own actions in the face of duty was considered an inferior man.

  He stood up, loosened the rawhide tie at the back of his queue, and squeezed the water from his hair. Freezing rivulets ran down the back of his neck, and he shook himself like a wet dog.

  Now that he could think clearly, it was clear to him that Elizabeth had been treated badly. She was either the world’s best actress or the emotional innocent he’d thought her to be.

  The image of her swollen lip surfaced in his mind, and a black fury possessed him. He wished he had killed Yellow Drum. There was nothing lower than a man who’d beat a woman, unless it was one who’d strip her of every ounce of self-confidence . . . who’d take away her God-given right to realize her own beauty. Murder was too good for the Seneca; he deserved a lifetime of torture.

  Hunt’s mouth tightened into a hard line. No woman deserved what had been done to Elizabeth. And how much better had he treated her?

  He turned back toward the camp with a raw conscience.

  “I’m sorry, Elizabeth,” he said as he stepped out of the darkness into the dim light of the campfire. She was still lying facedown where he’d left her. He would have guessed she was weeping, but he didn’t hear a sound. “I shouldn’t ...” Whatever else he meant to say was lost. She hadn’t put her dress back on, and she had the sweetest little bottom it had been his pleasure to see in a long time.