Seneca Surrender (Berkley Sensation)

by Gen Bailey

  He nodded.

  “But now you have excited my curiosity. What exactly is wampum?”

  “That will take some explaining,” he said. “If you will settle back here in my arms, I’ll finish washing you, and I’ll tell you about it.”

  She did as he asked, and he began rubbing her legs with water and the sand from the bottom of the stream. He said, “There are three words that are used to banish what we of the Iroquois call the insanity of grief. Long ago, the two men who founded the Iroquois Confederacy sought to console a person who was consumed with grief.”

  While he was speaking, his touch had explored higher and higher up on her thigh.

  “Hmm . . . that feels good,” she said. “But tell me more. What are the three words?” Meanwhile, she shifted position so that his hand was captured between her legs, there at their junction.

  He swallowed. “They are called the Three Bare Words, and they are the first few words that the Peacemaker spoke to Hiawatha in founding our Confederation. It is our Condolence Ceremony, which is performed with the intent of wiping away the insanity caused by grief, a madness that brings about endless fighting and war.”

  While he was speaking, she had parted her legs slightly, and he was not slow on the uptake. He placed his hand on her where he knew she ached to be rubbed, and he gave her what she appeared to need. In response, she moved her hips against the pressure he was exerting, and with the magic of his fingers he began to love her.

  “We can talk about this later,” he said.

  As she moved her body against his hand, she murmured, “Yes.”

  He sighed, and keeping his voice low and his fingers intent at their task, he said, “It has not been my intention to make love to you while you are still recovering from your fear. But if you want it . . .”

  She didn’t answer all at one time, though her legs had parted wider and she moved in time with the rhythm of his fingers. She was laid out before him like a feast, and not only did he partake, looking his fill at her, but by his touch alone, he was bringing her to a release.

  “Don’t you believe, sir, that making love is part of the healing process?” And though they were speaking all around it, the truth was that he was becoming very excited. Apparently she was, also.

  He answered, “I believe it might be . . . if one is willing.”

  Her hips were moving faster now against his fingers, and when she moaned, then whispered, “I’m willing,” he thought he might likely be the luckiest man alive. He groaned.

  Her lips were still parted, and the invitation she provided would have required a saint to resist; he was hardly that. Slowly his head descended toward hers, and when his lips took possession of hers, she moaned while she squirmed hard against him.

  It was a long, slow kiss, during which he repositioned her, settling her in front of him, with her legs wrapped around his waist. Then he came up onto his knees and holding her up by her buttocks, he settled her over his shaft. Slowly he entered her.

  She was hot, she was wet; and so aroused was she, he sensed she was already close to her peak. It was an erotic position, and they made love as if their lives depended on it.

  As he thrust into her, he said, “I think I died a thousand deaths when that Ottawa warrior slapped you.”

  “I have never been so frightened.”

  “Shhh. I know.”

  They were working themselves up into a frenzy of sexual tension, and his thrusts had become fast, jerky and driven. He knew she was close to her pinnacle. And when she rose up to fully experience that pleasure, he met her with his own need, spilling his seed into her.

  On and on the pleasure lengthened, extending way beyond the physical deed. And as he drifted back to earth, he came to realize that his life from this point forward would be different. He was not the same man he had been before he had met her. She was now as much a part of him as was his own identity. With her, he was whole.

  As they continued to move against each other in the aftermath of love, he sat back on his heels, bringing her with him. He whispered, “I would do most anything for you.”

  With her arms swung around his neck and her body intimately connected to his, she said, “I, too.”

  Twenty

  The love they created between them was pure, was good and was a little like magic. Perhaps, as she’d said, it was what was needed to help her to heal. He hoped it was so, for it was not within him to purposely bring her more heartache.

  At present, she was wrapped around him. And he had little desire to unsettle her. And so with himself still firmly encased within her warmth, he began to finish the job of washing her body, starting with her legs and thighs.

  In time, his manhood returned to its more usual state and when it did, he lifted her up above him slightly so as to wash her there, too. Then he rinsed the dirt from her arms, her breasts and her back. But when he came to her chest, he hesitated.

  Setting her slightly away from him, he traced the slash that had been made by the Ottawa warrior and asked, “Does this hurt?”

  “A bit,” she said, nodding.

  He let off touching it to splash fresh water on the wound, then sneaked in a few massages of her breasts before he reached down into the water, his hand seeking the mud in the river’s bed. Grabbing a handful of it, he dabbed it onto the cut.

  She jerked a little, then settled back into his arms, her own arms hugging him firmly around his neck.

  Interestingly, she didn’t object to the movement of the cold water over her body or to the mud that he had spread over her chest. Rather, it seemed as if she’d fallen asleep. But he wasn’t done yet.

  He would wash away her fear and her grief. Somehow, he would banish it from her mind. He only wished it were as easy as cleaning the body.

  He said, his voice no louder than a whisper, “Are you ready for me to wash your hair?”

  Her answer was a sigh. “Will it be cold?”

  “I fear it will be, for I’ll have to submerge it into the stream.”

  “Must we?” She gritted her teeth. “Truly, sir, you needn’t continue to wash me. I’m a big girl now and I can do the job myself.”

  “You would deny me the fantasy of my dream come true? ”

  She laughed, and the sound of it was as pretty as she was.

  “Besides,” he continued, “if I hold you crossways over my lap, it might not be too cold.”

  She sighed. “I think, sir, that I am putty in your hands for the moment. Do with me as you will.”

  He growled. And when an answering moan escaped her lips, he almost lost his resolve. But then, with trusting eyes, she stared up at him innocently, and said, “Sir, I think I should tell you something.”

  He raised an eyebrow in response, an encouragement for her to continue.

  “It may or may not matter to you. But . . .” She hesitated. “I . . . I’ve fallen in love with you.”

  Every nerve ending within his body suddenly screamed at him to do something, anything. He pulled her hard and fast against him, practically crushing her.

  So lost was he for words, he swallowed several times before he was at last able to utter simply, “I, too.”

  She backed up slightly from him, and said, “Did I hear that right, sir? Did you say that—”

  “You did. I love you.” He said it simply.

  She shifted until she was so close to him that he could feel the imprint of her breasts against his chest, then she said, “But what about Wild Mint and your promise—”

  “I love you,” he said again, this time more firmly. “I have for many days, perhaps weeks, but until I saw you with those Ottawa warriors and realized I could lose you, I hadn’t had the courage to admit it, even to myself.”

  Sarah sat up only inches away, presenting him with the glorious picture of a nude woman. Ah, what a fortunate man he was.

  “And Wild Mint?”

  “She will always have a place in my heart, and my duty remains as it has been for years,” he said honestly. “Bu
t it’s been fifteen years and . . . I have changed. No longer do I wish to join her in death. Indeed, I have come to know life, and it is a life I would like to share with you.”

  “I, too, feel this way,” she said, hugging him tightly. “But we must face the fact that we are from two different worlds, sir. You know this. When we’re here, separated from the rest of society, it seems that it would be a matter of simplicity to create our lives with each other. But other people’s will sometimes gets in the way. And I am still an indentured servant, with five years left to serve. Surely, sir, you understand, for we have discussed this at length. After five years, I will be free, and without the worry of being found if I tried to escape, and then forced into service for the rest of my life.”

  “Shhh.” He pulled her face in toward his until her head fit into the crook of his neck. “I know, but we have come here to wash away your grief, not add to it. Someday, we will have to face this, together. But for now, we are still married, if only because we have not yet had to part. And if we never part . . .”

  He felt her smile, heard her slight chuckle there against his shoulder.

  “We cannot fight all the battles that lie before us on this one day. It’s true that the moment may yet come when it appears we will have to part, but that it is not here now. We have time to prepare. Meanwhile, let us have this one evening without worry.”

  She nodded.

  “Now, it was not in my thoughts,” he said, “to make love to you here, now, in this stream. I think the shore would be a more comfortable place. But first we should wash your hair.”

  “I am honored, sir, that you are thinking of my comfort,” she said as she changed her position yet again, so that instead of straddling him, she was merely sitting in his lap. “You have my best interests at heart, and I thank you. But, Mr. White Thunder,” she said, “if I am to wash my hair, then I should swim, and so should you. And, sir, forgive me, but I believe you have on too many clothes.”

  He closed his eyes and smiled. What had he done to deserve such pleasure? He said, “That is easily remedied.”

  He accommodated her at once, shifting position so that he could come up to his feet. He still held her firmly in his arms, but since he was now ambulant, he waded to the shoreline.

  Once there, he let her down so that she was standing on her own, and as quickly as he could, he removed his leggings and the belts and straps that he wore over his chest and shoulders. But he left on his breechcloth, as well as several of his weapons.

  “Mr. Thunder, you are not naked, as I am.”

  “I am as naked as I can get,” he explained. “Until I am within the safety of a Seneca village, I cannot relax and leave my weapons behind me. This may be the Creator’s own valley, but there are those who do not respect even the Creator of all things. Therefore my tomahawk, my knives and my war club will remain with me.”

  “If that be the case,” she said, “then I shall swim as I usually do—in my chemise.”

  He nodded. “Though I fear it is not much protection,” he said, “for it is so flimsy that I can see beyond its threads to the treasure beneath. But if you desire it, I’ll get it for you.”

  “That would be most kind of you.”

  The tree where he had laid out her clothes to dry was not far, and he was back in an instant. He held the chemise out at arm’s length. “Is this what you need?”

  “It is.” She reached for it.

  But he withdrew it before she could take hold of it.

  She gave him a puzzled glance.

  His response was a smile. “Come and get it.”

  “Sir? ”

  With his hand, he urged her to come forward. Again, he held the garment out toward her.

  She took a step toward him, another, then she lunged at him, grabbing for the chemise.

  But he sidestepped her easily, and caught her so she didn’t fall. He tickled her a little, too, and quite expectedly, she giggled.

  “You have to learn to be quicker. Would you like to have another try at it?”

  She gave him a wild leer. “I little know if I wish to play this game with you. sir. I seem to be the loser of it.”

  “Loser?” He shook his head and smiled at her. “I think you are the winner of all my attention.”

  That caused her to laugh again. It was a delight to hear.

  “Mr. Thunder, I would like my chemise now.”

  “And so you shall have it.” Again he held it out to her. “Miss Sarah, you simply need to be a little faster.”

  She shook her head, and he knew she was suppressing a smile. He held the chemise out to her.

  “You have to hold it still,” she demanded, “and you can’t jerk it back when I reach for it.”

  He extended it from his body. “Do you see, I am holding it still.”

  “Yes, you are now. But you have to continue to hold it still, sir. Those are the rules.”

  He grinned at her. “And so I am holding it still for you.”

  She made to reach for it, but again he quickly moved it out of range.

  “Sir, I said you had to hold it still.”

  “I was. I am,” he said. “It was the fault of the wind, which moved my arm.”

  She sighed. “I fear the chemise is not to be seen on my body while I swim with you, is it?”

  “I have no say over that, Miss Sarah. You have only to reach for it . . . and beat me.”

  She laughed. “It doesn’t appear that this is going to happen, and I think I should take that swim while my body is still used to the temperature of the water, and while we still have light to see by. Already the sun is disappearing in the western sky.”

  “Then come,” he said. “Let’s swim before you get too cold, and while I can still look at you to my fill.” He rushed toward her and took hold of her hand with his own—the hand that was holding the chemise. Quickly she grabbed it from him and slipped it over her head, letting it fall to its full length, which came to mid-calf on her.

  She said, “Thank you, sir.”

  “You are welcome. But come, let’s take that swim.”

  As he’dpromised, he washed her hair with the goldenrod flowers, which he’d rubbed in his hands with water until they made a paste that could be spread through the hair.

  “It’s best to dry the plant first and then make the soap from that. But this will work,” he’d said.

  They’d washed each other’s hair, and Sarah had curiously asked about the common Indian hairstyle of the Iroquois, the one known to most as the mohawk.

  He’d run his hand over the top of his head, then said, “This is called the scalp lock, and it is a dare to the enemy. Most tribes take scalps to prove the accuracy of their war deeds. They are like the Englishman’s metals, and they are honored in the same way.”

  “However,” she commented, “one is bloody, and the other is not.”

  “Yet, they are obtained in the same manner, Miss Sarah, and for the same reason—war,” he’d countered. “And war is not without blood. Perhaps the Indian way is better, because it is a reminder that the token is taken by sacrificing the life of another.”

  Sarah didn’t have an instant reply to that, and so they’d fallen back into their animated romp in the water, mostly playing tag and splashing one another, for the water was only deep in particular places, which didn’t allow for actual swimming. But it didn’t matter. It was a perfect end to a memorable evening.

  Indeed, she’d had so much fun, she’d almost forgotten about the torture. Almost.

  The evening shadows finally chased the two of them from the water—that and the cold wind that arrived with the night air. By the time they were ready to leave, Sarah had discovered that her clothes were dry and she hurriedly slipped them on before White Thunder had the opportunity to get at them before her and tease her. At last she was fully dressed. It felt good.

  “I’m hungry,” she said as they began climbing up the slope that led to the summit, where they had set up camp. “What’s for supper?�
��

  “I fear we are still eating a diet of dried meat and berries. Perhaps tomorrow I might hunt and we will fix some fresh meat.”

  “I think dried meat and berries sound delicious.” She followed him up the slope, placing her feet in the same footholds he’d made.

  Before they reached the top, however, he turned to her and signaled her to silence and to remain where she was. Oh, no. Now what? Were they never to escape the enemy?

  Her heartbeat picked up enough speed that she could hear its beating in her ears. Her stomach twisted as she watched White Thunder crawl up the remaining incline of the slope, watched as he quietly, carefully took out his tomahawk and took aim.

  He let the projectile go and she heard a dull thump and the cry of whatever life he’d hit.

  White Thunder turned back toward her, and signaled her to follow him on up the slope. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. She did as requested, dreading what she might find but knowing it had to be done.

  White Thunder was grinning at her as she caught up to him, and he held out his hand to her. He said, “The Creator must have heard us speaking of our dull supper. Do you see what He put here, awaiting us?”

  It was a deer, a buck.

  “We will have fresh meat tonight.”

  To Sarah, whose duties had never included kitchen activities, the idea of skinning and preparing the meat was neither appealing nor even appetizing. Even that first time when he’d brought a deer to the cave, she hadn’t helped him then. She had watched. But that was past, and she’d be darned now if she’d let him know that the task was hardly pleasant.

  She grinned at him as though he might have presented her with a jeweled ring. “It’s wonderful,” she said. “We can make more dry meat.”

  “We can, but first there are parts of the animal that have to be eaten fresh after it is killed. The liver is one of those. We’ll eat that tonight and make dry meat tomorrow.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Sarah, who hoped she was feigning the same sort of enthusiasm for the task as White Thunder.

  They set to work over the deer, and to Sarah’s amazement, she discovered it wasn’t as gruesome as she had thought. Indeed, with White Thunder at her side, she enjoyed the evening very much.