Sundancer's Woman

by Judith E. French

  The taste of his mouth was intoxicating; his virile masculine scent made her mind reel. His callused fingers claimed her as his own, trailing down her face and throat with exquisite tenderness. With sensual strokes, he traced the line of her backbone and cupped her buttocks with lean, strong fingers. He kissed the corners of her lips, her ear and throat, then dropped to his knees and pressed his head between her breasts.

  “Hunt, Hunt,” she murmured. She cradled him against her, running her fingers through his soft hair, feeling his breath against her naked skin. For this one night I will feel beautiful, she thought. I will feel loved.

  He nuzzled her breast like a baby, and she felt the rough prickle of his day’s growth of new beard. All similarity to an infant nursing ceased when his warm tongue touched her swollen nipple. She gasped with surprise at the accompanying sensation deep within her woman’s cleft.

  “Ah, Beth,” he whispered hoarsely. “You taste like maple syrup.”

  She giggled, then closed her eyes as the ribbons of pleasure tightened and vibrated like the strings of a musical instrument. He drew her nipple between his lips and suckled, making her want to moan with pleasure. She whispered his name again and again as an unfamiliar, bittersweet aching grew in her loins.

  He chuckled and cupped her other breast in his big hand. “Mmm,” he murmured. “Very nice.”

  She felt something ... something she could not fathom or explain ... drawing near. She caught his hand and pressed it between her legs. “Touch me here,” she begged him. The feeling was unbelievable. She wanted more ... something more. She was wet ... hot and wet and hungry for the act of love.

  She rubbed against him so that his fingers would slide deeper into the core of her yearning. “Please,” she whispered. “I want ... I want ...”

  He thrust two fingers higher, and she clenched her teeth and let her head fall back as he gently caressed a nub of pure sensation she’d not known existed. She tossed her head and whimpered with joy. She felt as though she was caught in a raging current that swept her closer and closer to the brink of a bottomless chasm. Yet she was powerless to stop herself ... powerless to—

  With one swift motion, Hunt stood and swept her up in his arms. “Not yet, sweet,” he whispered hoarsely. “Not yet.” She slumped back against his chest, her breath coming in deep ragged gulps, her mind dazed as he carried her to the bed and laid her on the heaped blankets.

  She looked up at him, and he smiled with such tenderness that her confusion fled. The tumultuous singing in her blood could only be good. Hunt would bring her happiness ... if only for a few brief hours. “I want you,” she whispered, holding out her arms to him.

  The gleam in his eyes made her heart leap. “And you’ll have me,” he promised. “As much of me as you can hold.” He chuckled softly. “But first ... first, you must do something about this sticky syrup all over me.”

  “Me?” Her eyes widened. “But I’m not the one who—”

  “It’s your fault,” he accused. Mischief mingled with desire in his voice as he lifted her hand and planted a damp kiss on the inside of her wrist, then flicked the sensitive spot with the tip of his tongue. “Hmm,” he murmured. “None there.” He kissed a slow pathway to her elbow, tasting her skin after each caress; then he repeated the pattern, but this time nipping at her with tender love-bites. And he did not stop at her wrist, but took each finger and traced the length with his lips.

  Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat as Hunt drew her thumb into his mouth and sucked lightly. “What are you ...” Her thought was lost as his strong white teeth nibbled the end of her index finger, then drew it between his lips. “You shouldn’t,” she protested. “Your wound ... you could ...” But he only laughed.

  “I like sweets,” he said. “Close your eyes and enjoy it. Your turn will come soon enough.”

  He teased each finger, then focused his attention on her shoulder, moving ever closer to her breast.

  Waves of pleasure lapped through her body, one after another, until it was impossible to lie still ... until the deliberate, erotic assault on her senses kindled the fire in her loins again. She caught his head and brought it to her breast. “Suck my nipples,” she urged him. “It feels so good when you ...”

  “For me too,” he murmured, slowly laving the tender nub, then scraping his teeth against her damp skin. “Mmm, I found something sweet,” he said as he drew the nipple into his mouth. His hands ranged over her stomach, and lean fingers stroked the soft curls at the apex of her thighs before delving inside the damp folds.

  Again she could not hold back the gasp of wonder. How was it possible that she had never experienced such feeling before? Hunt licked first one of her nipples and then the other, all the while continuing to stroke her cleft until she was nearly lost in the giddiness of erotic bliss.

  “Shall I kiss you there?” he asked. “Would you like that?”

  She heard him, but she couldn’t summon a reply. A daring thought had risen in her mind. If his lips on her breasts brought her such joy ... wouldn’t the same action bring him gratification?

  Tentatively, she slid her hand down over his superbly muscled chest to stroke his left nipple and found it sticky with syrup. To her delight, the bud of flesh hardened under her touch.

  Hunt arched his back and groaned, and she felt a surge of power. “Are you sweet?” she dared. She lifted her head and flicked her tongue across his nipple. His shoulders tightened and he let out a long sigh. “Two can play at this game,” she said, drawing him between her lips and suckling.

  He exhaled softly. “You learned torture well from the Iroquois,” he replied, capturing her hand and pressing it against his ardent erection. “Have you nerve enough to ...” He whispered the rest in her ear.

  A hot flush rose under her skin. “I might,” she answered.

  “Is that a promise?” His hair tickled her breasts as he trailed hot kisses down her midriff and licked the hollow of her navel. “It’s sweeter below,” he murmured.

  As his mouth explored her, a spasm of velvet rapture suddenly exploded deep within her. “Oh,” she cried. “Oh.” Ripples radiated from a pulsating center.

  Hunt rose on his knees and spread her legs apart. “You’re ready for me now, aren’t you, Beth? You want me as much as I want you, don’t you?”

  “Yes—yes.”

  “Say it,” he ordered.

  “I want you.”

  Another spasm rocked her body as his rod pressed against her willing flesh. “What do you want me to do?” he demanded.

  “Come into me!” She braced herself for his thrust, but he entered her slowly, tenderly, allowing her time to adjust to the fullness of his straining sex. Then he slid farther inside her, and the intensity of her need pushed everything else away. “Yes, yes,” she cried.

  He drove deep and hard, whipping her need into a white-hot passion. She met him thrust for thrust, losing herself in the abandon of a union so tempestuous that her cries of rapture echoed through the warm, fire-lit cabin and mingled with those of the beautiful man covering her with his sweat-sheened body.

  She tumbled from the abyss, was caught and tumbled again, swirled in the bright colors of ecstasy, sheltered by the power of his arms.

  Sometime during the magical night, they slept, then woke in a languid tangle of limbs and sweet, lazy caresses to begin the discovery of love and laughter once more, giving again and yet again.

  “Is it always like this with you?” she asked him between kisses.

  He was propped up on a roll of blankets, and she lay shamelessly astraddle him with her cheek pressed against his broad chest. Hunt had a lock of her hair wound around his finger, and he was trying to plait the ends into a length of his own hair to make a contrasting pattern of red and black. “Do I like making love, or am I always so vigorous?”

  She pushed up, saw by his expression that he was teasing her, and snuggled down in the crook of his shoulder. Raindrops were tapping against the windowpanes. Sometime in the nigh
t, the temperature had risen, and the snowfall had become rain. “How is your arm?” she asked him. “Oh, it’s bleeding,” she said with sudden alarm.

  “It’s all right,” he replied brusquely. “Nothing to fuss over.”

  “You shouldn’t have—”

  He laughed. “I was hurting worse than this before we—”

  “Not in the arm.”

  “No.” He grinned. “Not in the arm. In another limb.”

  “You should take more care with those bites. They could turn bad.”

  “I’ve had worse.”

  “You don’t want to lose the arm.”

  “I won’t. It hurts, but not so bad as it would if it were poisoned.”

  “Sometimes I think you’re more Indian than white. An Iroquois brave would rather have his arm fall off than admit that he’s in pain.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I’m not questioning your courage. Back there, in the cave, you could have left me with Powder Horn.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I don’t give up what’s mine that easily.”

  “But I’m not yours, am I?” She kept her tone light. “I am my own person.”

  “You’re mine until I deliver you to your father.”

  She exhaled softly. “And what would he think about this”—she motioned to the bed—“do you suppose?”

  Hunt frowned. “I don’t reckon he’d think too much of it.”

  “Of you taking advantage of me?”

  He sniffed. “Is that the way you see it, Beth?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “You know better. What happened was as much my fault as yours.”

  “Good. I thought that way myself.”

  “I’m not sorry,” she added.

  “Nor am I.”

  They lay in silence for several moments, and Elizabeth listened to the rain hitting the roof. She knew she should rise and start preparing the morning meal, but she hated to leave the bed and break the spell that held her in its glorious grip.

  He brushed her nose with the tip of the joined braid. “Now that we’ve decided we’re equally guilty, I’ll admit I’m hungry enough to eat that wolf we left back on the riverbank.”

  “Me too.”

  “I think I’d like a deer steak, a few trout, some corn bread with syrup and—”

  “Enough.” She laughed. “I’ll build up the fire and—”

  “Stay right where you are, woman,” he ordered. “If I hadn’t gotten up in the night to add wood, we’d both probably have frozen to death. But it’s none too warm in here. You stay under the blankets. I’ll get the breakfast.” He rolled her over and patted her bare bottom before covering her up.

  As he turned away and retrieved his breeches, Elizabeth couldn’t keep her eyes off him. His long legs rippled with muscle; his bare arms and shoulders showed the effects of a lifetime in the wilderness. And his sleek, tight buttocks ... Heat burned her cheeks. She sighed deeply and hugged herself with both arms. Hunt was beautiful, and for one night he’d wanted her. The memory would be enough to hold her for a lifetime.

  “I’ve no wish to travel in this weather,” he said, pulling on his moccasins and a vest. “Brrr. It’s damp in here.” He threw another log on the fire and glanced back at her. “I’m going out to take a look around the mission, just to make certain—”

  “If anyone came last night, they could have had us as easily as catching ducks in a basket,” she said.

  He grimaced. “You’ll be the death of me yet, woman.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Me too.” He picked up his rifle, checked the priming, and started for the door.

  “Put on your coat,” she reminded him. “It’s pouring out there.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He grinned boyishly. “Bossy thing, aren’t you? Bad as a Shoshone woman.”

  Elizabeth giggled at his warm teasing. She waited until the door closed behind him, then rose and dressed quickly. By the time he came back in, she’d washed her hands and face, combed the worst of the tangles from her hair and begun to braid it.

  “No,” Hunt said. “Leave it free around your face.”

  “And look a hoyden?” she asked shyly.

  “I like it that way.”

  “All right,” she answered. Bubbles of happiness made her reckless. Today, she’d do as he asked. Today, she’d forget who and what she was ... forget all the rules. Feeling as reckless as a Gypsy wench, she laughed and started on the corn bread.

  “I promised you breakfast,” he said.

  “I’ll fix it if you’ll carry water from the cistern to heat. I think I’d like another bath today.” She looked away and felt herself blush again. The evidence of their lovemaking was still to be washed from her body.

  “Gladly, provided that you’ll scrub my back this time.”

  She laughed and finished the corn cakes, then put them on an iron spider to bake near the coals. Taking her cloak, she ventured outside in the rain and slush to tend to her intimate needs. The cabin glowed bright and warm when she returned, and for a few long seconds, she allowed herself to imagine what it might be like to call such a place home ... to come in to her own kitchen and find Hunt waiting there.

  “If the rain lets up tomorrow, we’ll go south,” he said, and her make-believe dream shattered.

  She could not go south without her children. She could not do it to save her immortal soul from hell.

  “The water’s heating in the kettle,” he said. “Maybe we’ve time for that bath before—”

  “We do not,” she assured him.

  “I was afraid of that.”

  She checked the corn cakes to make certain they weren’t burning, then glanced back at him. “Where will you go when my father pays you?”

  “West.”

  Her heart sank. “To the place where the buffalo are?” She never tired of hearing him talk about the places he’d been and the people he’d known, but she couldn’t help a faint hope from rising. She didn’t want him to go far away—she wasn’t certain she could bear it if she never saw him again.

  “I reckon to cross the plains to the high mountains beyond them. My father’s there. I told him I’d come back when I’d seen all I wanted to of civilization.”

  “What’s it like?” she asked. “Those high mountains?”

  He gave her that slow, devilish smile that always made her heart skip a beat. “You’ve asked me that a dozen times,” he teased.

  “Tell me again,” she pleaded. She wanted to remember everything he told her, to imprint it so clearly in her mind that she’d never forget.

  “I feared I was boring you with my tall tales,” he replied.

  “Never.”

  “Well, then... The high mountains are like nothing you’ve ever seen or dreamed of. Those mountains rear out of the plains like the fingers of God. They’re big and wild and beautiful. There are peaks where the snow never melts, and valleys that no man—red or white—has ever set foot in.”

  “It sounds like a lonely place to me,” she said.

  He chuckled. “Maybe. But I’ve spent so much time in my own company, I’ve grown to like it.”

  “And you never want to settle down?” She tried to keep her tone light, although her heart was hammering. “Take a wife? Raise a family?”

  He shrugged. “Do I look like the marrying kind?”

  She turned away and busied herself with the breakfast to hide her flush of embarrassment. How could she be such a fool? To dream that a man like Hunt could want a woman like her? “I was only making conversation,” she stammered. “It wasn’t a proposal.”

  “The closest I ever came to a wedding was the time I was captured by a Blackfoot by the name of Stone Knife. I was only fourteen, and I’d been hunting buffalo with a party of young Cheyenne braves. Stone Knife needed a husband for his pregnant daughter whose lover had fled the territory. Strikes Her Teepee was a sweet little fifteen-year-old who stood a foot taller than me, had a voice like a bull elk, and could have lifted me astride a buffalo
calf over her head, single-handed. Luckily, my hunting partners rescued me before I became a husband and a father—probably in the same night.”

  “Oh!” Elizabeth cried. Smoke started to curl from the iron spider. She grabbed for the handle of the frying pan and burned her fingers.

  Hunt pulled the pan away from the fire and dumped the corn cakes onto a plate. One missed and landed on the table, but he quickly added it to the pile. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I told you you should stay in bed and let me do the cooking.”

  “Maybe I should have,” she replied.

  He brought snow to ease the sting of the burn and ministered to her as tenderly as any mother could do. Strange, she thought, how his hands—so big and powerful—could be so gentle. “It was careless of me to grab the handle,” she said.

  “You do need constant watching,” he said.

  He kept up his good-natured teasing through breakfast, and the bath that followed led to a return to the bed and a renewal of their sweet, hot lovemaking.

  “Don’t be afraid of having another child,” he told her, when they lay exhausted in a heap of blankets. “There’s no danger of you quickening with my seed.”

  “Why?” she asked. It was the wrong time of month for her to get pregnant. She’d learned enough of the Iroquois women’s lore to know when she was at risk and when she wasn’t, but Hunt had no way of knowing her cycle.

  “I’m sterile,” he said brusquely. “Soon after I came back from the western mountains I caught mumps from a white trader’s children. I came as close to dying as a man can get. I would have died if Campbell hadn’t found me and taken me to his home. He sent for a physician and paid for his healing. It was the doctor who told me I’d not father children, and he was right. No woman has ever named me, and they’ve had every chance.”

  Hunt’s tone was matter-of-fact, but the pain in his eyes was plain to see. “Thank you for telling me,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Only fair to tell you the rules of the game.”

  “Most men wouldn’t.”