WHERE THE WILD WIND BLOWS
Book 1 in the Native American Wild Wind Series
There was nothing friendly about him. He sat without moving, deceptively relaxed in a cross-legged position, puffing silently on a long-stemmed pipe. The fire sent shadows flickering across his face and bare chest and cast him in an ominous light. There was a menace about him, an undisguised hostility, and a proud arrogance. The colors and design of the beaded bag that hung from his rawhide belt confirmed that he was Lakota.
Her voice sounded small and childlike when it slipped into the space between them. “How long was I sleeping?”
If he was surprised that she spoke his language, he gave no indication of it. Tossing a stick onto the fire, he said stoically, “The sun has risen and fallen once.”
A day. She had slept an entire day. It seemed incredible until she recalled just how much there was to forget. She began to tremble, and into the darkness she raged at the utter senselessness of it all. “Why did they have to die like that?”
A muscle twitched in his high-boned cheek. His voice came low and reeking of bitterness from across the flames. “Word of this killing will spread like wildfire and many others will be asking that question.”
Remembering what her father always told her about the Indian way, Katie swallowed down the lump in her throat and said in a voice that quavered, “My father will have many fine gifts for you for helping me to escape.”
“Your father is dead.”
She did not hear him. “He will be very grateful to you.”
He repeated, “Your father is dead.”
This time she could not block it out. His cold, flat words were the awful confirmation of what she had already sensed in the depths of her being. They had a final, absolute ring to them.
“Richard.” She uttered the name as part statement, part question, aimed at no one in particular.
He tapped the spent ashes out of the pipe bowl, saying as he did, “The one with hair the color of the red dog is dead.”
It wasn’t that he referred to Richard as a fox that caused her to flinch, but the casual way in which he said it. Tears began to form, hot, stinging tears of disbelief and outrage and sorrow. Her shoulders started to shake as great sobs seized her. Like water from a broken beaver dam the tears rushed from her eyes and she wept into her hands. First, her mother had been taken from her, leaving a void that would never be filled. Now, her father and brother, and with them, dreams of Ireland and a life that was never to be fulfilled. The world was suddenly a dark and lonely place, with death and destruction as the only rewards for living.
Black Moon watched her from across the embers. “Death is part of the circle of life,” he said. “Man moves in a sun-wise direction. He comes from the south, the source of all life, and moves toward the west, the setting sun of his life. As he grows older, he approaches the cold north where the white hairs wait. If he lives long enough, he comes to the source of light and understanding that is the east. From there he returns to the place where his life began, to his mother, the Earth. We all return to the place of our beginning. Only the weak ones cry.” There was no pity in his voice, no compassion, only a hint of mocking.
Katie lifted her chin and glared back at him. With tear-stained cheeks and eyes wild and bright, she declared with a sudden burst of pride, “I am not weak. I am strong.”
His face remained implacable. He gave an indolent shrug, and said, “Is that why you shake like a frightened long-ears? Tell me, little red-haired long-ears just how strong you are.”
“I am no rabbit,” she said. “Do not call me that.”
His jaw tightened at her insolence. “I will call you whatever I please.”
“I have a name. It is Katie.”
“Names can be changed. A boy is known by his cradle name until he earns a new one.”
“But I am a woman, and even among the Lakota a woman does not change the name she receives at birth. My name is Katie and I will answer to no other.”
From the storm clouds she saw gathering in his smoky eyes she expected him to draw his knife from its hide sheath and silence her with it for speaking so boldly. But he made no move toward his weapon.
They lapsed into silence. Katie had no idea how long she sat there with her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms hugging them tight. During the indeterminate hours that passed in which neither of them spoke, she scrutinized him from across the flickering flames.
His hair, unbound and hanging long and straight over his shoulders, was blacker than the recesses of the cave where no light shone. The fire illuminated a face that bore the stamp of power and sheer force of will. With its high cheekbones, straight nose and well defined mouth, its handsomeness was compelling. It drew her toward it, much like the glazed windows of her father’s cabin on the Laramie had often drawn magpies that flew against them with a thud and an explosion of feathers.
She could not help but notice that his legs were slim and hard, made for wrapping around a horse’s bare back. A lean, tough belly showed not a hint of extra flesh. His bare narrow shoulders seemed perfectly made for slipping easily through thick groves and brush. His arms were well-muscled from a lifetime of drawing taut bowstrings. A band of red-dyed porcupine quills spanned one forearm. The hands that held the pipe, with their long, tapered fingers, were almost too beautiful to belong to a man.
Yet despite the physical appeal of him that she found so compelling, there was a hardness about him, of angular features and taut muscles and the suggestion of an inflexible spirit. But it was his eyes, in which the flames of the fire shone so brightly, that burned with such undisguised hatred it sent chills through her and forced her to turn her face away.
The silence stretched on and on.
Book 1 in the Native American Wild Wind Series
There was nothing friendly about him. He sat without moving, deceptively relaxed in a cross-legged position, puffing silently on a long-stemmed pipe. The fire sent shadows flickering across his face and bare chest and cast him in an ominous light. There was a menace about him, an undisguised hostility, and a proud arrogance. The colors and design of the beaded bag that hung from his rawhide belt confirmed that he was Lakota.
Her voice sounded small and childlike when it slipped into the space between them. “How long was I sleeping?”
If he was surprised that she spoke his language, he gave no indication of it. Tossing a stick onto the fire, he said stoically, “The sun has risen and fallen once.”
A day. She had slept an entire day. It seemed incredible until she recalled just how much there was to forget. She began to tremble, and into the darkness she raged at the utter senselessness of it all. “Why did they have to die like that?”
A muscle twitched in his high-boned cheek. His voice came low and reeking of bitterness from across the flames. “Word of this killing will spread like wildfire and many others will be asking that question.”
Remembering what her father always told her about the Indian way, Katie swallowed down the lump in her throat and said in a voice that quavered, “My father will have many fine gifts for you for helping me to escape.”
“Your father is dead.”
She did not hear him. “He will be very grateful to you.”
He repeated, “Your father is dead.”
This time she could not block it out. His cold, flat words were the awful confirmation of what she had already sensed in the depths of her being. They had a final, absolute ring to them.
“Richard.” She uttered the name as part statement, part question, aimed at no one in particular.
He tapped the spent ashes out of the pipe bowl, saying as he did, “The one with hair the color of the red dog is dead.”
It wasn’t that he referred to Richard as a fox that caused her to flinch, but the casual way in which he said it. Tears began to form, hot, stinging tears of disbelief and outrage and sorrow. Her shoulders started to shake as great sobs seized her. Like water from a broken beaver dam the tears rushed from her eyes and she wept into her hands. First, her mother had been taken from her, leaving a void that would never be filled. Now, her father and brother, and with them, dreams of Ireland and a life that was never to be fulfilled. The world was suddenly a dark and lonely place, with death and destruction as the only rewards for living.
Black Moon watched her from across the embers. “Death is part of the circle of life,” he said. “Man moves in a sun-wise direction. He comes from the south, the source of all life, and moves toward the west, the setting sun of his life. As he grows older, he approaches the cold north where the white hairs wait. If he lives long enough, he comes to the source of light and understanding that is the east. From there he returns to the place where his life began, to his mother, the Earth. We all return to the place of our beginning. Only the weak ones cry.” There was no pity in his voice, no compassion, only a hint of mocking.
Katie lifted her chin and glared back at him. With tear-stained cheeks and eyes wild and bright, she declared with a sudden burst of pride, “I am not weak. I am strong.”
His face remained implacable. He gave an indolent shrug, and said, “Is that why you shake like a frightened long-ears? Tell me, little red-haired long-ears just how strong you are.”
“I am no rabbit,” she said. “Do not call me that.”
His jaw tightened at her insolence. “I will call you whatever I please.”
“I have a name. It is Katie.”
“Names can be changed. A boy is known by his cradle name until he earns a new one.”
“But I am a woman, and even among the Lakota a woman does not change the name she receives at birth. My name is Katie and I will answer to no other.”
From the storm clouds she saw gathering in his smoky eyes she expected him to draw his knife from its hide sheath and silence her with it for speaking so boldly. But he made no move toward his weapon.
They lapsed into silence. Katie had no idea how long she sat there with her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms hugging them tight. During the indeterminate hours that passed in which neither of them spoke, she scrutinized him from across the flickering flames.
His hair, unbound and hanging long and straight over his shoulders, was blacker than the recesses of the cave where no light shone. The fire illuminated a face that bore the stamp of power and sheer force of will. With its high cheekbones, straight nose and well defined mouth, its handsomeness was compelling. It drew her toward it, much like the glazed windows of her father’s cabin on the Laramie had often drawn magpies that flew against them with a thud and an explosion of feathers.
She could not help but notice that his legs were slim and hard, made for wrapping around a horse’s bare back. A lean, tough belly showed not a hint of extra flesh. His bare narrow shoulders seemed perfectly made for slipping easily through thick groves and brush. His arms were well-muscled from a lifetime of drawing taut bowstrings. A band of red-dyed porcupine quills spanned one forearm. The hands that held the pipe, with their long, tapered fingers, were almost too beautiful to belong to a man.
Yet despite the physical appeal of him that she found so compelling, there was a hardness about him, of angular features and taut muscles and the suggestion of an inflexible spirit. But it was his eyes, in which the flames of the fire shone so brightly, that burned with such undisguised hatred it sent chills through her and forced her to turn her face away.
The silence stretched on and on.
BELOVED BETRAYER
A tall figure stood darkly against the afterglow, the firelight dancing in red sparks over his mail. He came slowly into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.
Through the turmoil that swirled in her mind Rowan found her voice. “You come to Langerly dressed for battle?”
“I knew not if I would find a warm welcome.”
The sound of his voice, deep and sensual, sent her emotions into a tailspin. “If you are here to see my father—”
“I am not here to see Lord Cedric.” He unbuckled his swordbelt and set the weapon aside.
The fragrance of burning applewood was lost in the scent of horse and leather that clung to his skin. A wild yearning seized Rowan. She wanted to run to him and submit herself to his kiss and his touch. With a pang she remained motionless, gathering her strength for the terrible task that lay ahead. She struggled for breath beneath the weight of his stare. She looked around, feeling helpless and trapped.
He stepped forward. “Why are you making this marriage to Wulfric?”
There was a plea for understanding in his voice.
Rowan’s anger flared out of necessity. “You dare question my motives when you deceived me?”
There was a look of pained shock on his face. “I thought we settled that.”
“I have had time to think about it, and the matter seems far from settled to me.”
“Rowan.” His voice cracked. He paused and began again. “I will ask you again. Why are you marrying Wulfric?”
“Why should I not marry Wulfric?”
“Because you do not love him.”
“Love. Tis much overrated. And besides, a woman cannot always choose her way in life.”
He scrutinized her with wolf-like intensity. “Did you not once claim that you would not be handed over with a parcel of land to some hairy lout?”
Her fingers pulled nervously at her skirt. “If you had any honor in you, you would not toss my words back at me. And if you had any understanding of women, you would know that tis a peculiar trait of ours to change our minds.”
“I do not excuse myself for misleading you,” Gareth said. “But surely that cannot be the reason for this turnabout. What can there be for you in this marriage? Wulfric is marrying you only for what he stands to gain. What do you gain, Rowan?”
She felt the stones shifting beneath her feet. “I will be mistress of Thornby.”
“Not if I claim it for my own,” he said tersely.
Trying bravely to ignore that possibility, she said absently, “In time I am sure Wulfric and I will come to an understanding as husband and wife.”
Gareth replied flatly, “You will never be mistress of Thornby. Matilda will never relinquish that role. She will always come first with Wulfric. You are nothing but chattel to them. A means to an end. And do not delude yourself into thinking that any child you bear will be safe. Remember what she did to me when I was a babe.”
Rowan gasped and drew back in horror, the blood draining from her face, leaving it the hue of tallow.
“I see you had not thought of that,” Gareth said.
She hates me, flashed through Rowan’s mind. Why did I not see how this would be? When Langerly is theirs, will she kill me then? And what of my babe, if there be one? She felt herself drowning in regret. Tell him. Tell him now before this poison seeps any further.
But she could not. So deeply did she love him that perfidy seemed a small price to pay to keep him safe. Summoning all her courage, she met his gaze. “I will make this marriage.”
He drew in a long breath. “As you wish, my lady.” His voice sounded hollow, neither angry nor sad, and it was impossible to tell from the look on his face what he was feeling. A horrid hush filled the chamber during which his dark eyes tore into her like hungry wolves. In the rushlight the scar on his cheek took on an ominous look, and the face that stared back at her bore a harsh resemblance to Kenric, numbing her to the bone. His strain was visible in the rigid way he reached for his swordbelt and strapped it back on.
“Your words of love were false then,” he said.
“I—I was confused.”
“Were your eyes confused when they looked upon me with love in the tower? The way they look upon me now?”
“My eyes betray me when they are weary,” she said absently.
“And if I were to take you now, right here on the floor of your chamber, would your body betray you?”
Rowan struggled to maintain her composure. The dangerous look on his handsome face told her he might make good on it and, God help her, she would have let him. She longed for the sensation of his hands on her skin, the touch of his lips, to bury her face in his long, tangled hair and feel the weight of his body pressing down on hers. The green scent of the midnight woodlands beyond the window was lost in the hot, vibrant scent of him. The blood pounded through her veins, causing a deafening roar in her ears.
But it was more than that which caused Rowan to back slowly away from him. His eyes darkened like storm clouds and there was a look in them that she had never seen before, a sulfurous, mutinous look, and she knew with cold certainty that if she were to give herself to him now, there would be no tenderness in their coupling.
“I—I have something for you,” she said nervously. She picked up the clothes and held them out to him.
He cast a disdainful look at them and said, “Wulfric is about my size. Give them to your husband.”
Rowan bit back her tears. “As you wish.”
Gareth turned to go. At the door he paused to aim a contemptuous look back at her. The rushlights cast an ominous glow over him, causing his mail to sparkle with a sinister light and his face to take on the look of a stranger’s. “I wonder. On your wedding night, when Wulfric takes you to his bed, will it be his name you call in your heart…or mine?”
A tall figure stood darkly against the afterglow, the firelight dancing in red sparks over his mail. He came slowly into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.
Through the turmoil that swirled in her mind Rowan found her voice. “You come to Langerly dressed for battle?”
“I knew not if I would find a warm welcome.”
The sound of his voice, deep and sensual, sent her emotions into a tailspin. “If you are here to see my father—”
“I am not here to see Lord Cedric.” He unbuckled his swordbelt and set the weapon aside.
The fragrance of burning applewood was lost in the scent of horse and leather that clung to his skin. A wild yearning seized Rowan. She wanted to run to him and submit herself to his kiss and his touch. With a pang she remained motionless, gathering her strength for the terrible task that lay ahead. She struggled for breath beneath the weight of his stare. She looked around, feeling helpless and trapped.
He stepped forward. “Why are you making this marriage to Wulfric?”
There was a plea for understanding in his voice.
Rowan’s anger flared out of necessity. “You dare question my motives when you deceived me?”
There was a look of pained shock on his face. “I thought we settled that.”
“I have had time to think about it, and the matter seems far from settled to me.”
“Rowan.” His voice cracked. He paused and began again. “I will ask you again. Why are you marrying Wulfric?”
“Why should I not marry Wulfric?”
“Because you do not love him.”
“Love. Tis much overrated. And besides, a woman cannot always choose her way in life.”
He scrutinized her with wolf-like intensity. “Did you not once claim that you would not be handed over with a parcel of land to some hairy lout?”
Her fingers pulled nervously at her skirt. “If you had any honor in you, you would not toss my words back at me. And if you had any understanding of women, you would know that tis a peculiar trait of ours to change our minds.”
“I do not excuse myself for misleading you,” Gareth said. “But surely that cannot be the reason for this turnabout. What can there be for you in this marriage? Wulfric is marrying you only for what he stands to gain. What do you gain, Rowan?”
She felt the stones shifting beneath her feet. “I will be mistress of Thornby.”
“Not if I claim it for my own,” he said tersely.
Trying bravely to ignore that possibility, she said absently, “In time I am sure Wulfric and I will come to an understanding as husband and wife.”
Gareth replied flatly, “You will never be mistress of Thornby. Matilda will never relinquish that role. She will always come first with Wulfric. You are nothing but chattel to them. A means to an end. And do not delude yourself into thinking that any child you bear will be safe. Remember what she did to me when I was a babe.”
Rowan gasped and drew back in horror, the blood draining from her face, leaving it the hue of tallow.
“I see you had not thought of that,” Gareth said.
She hates me, flashed through Rowan’s mind. Why did I not see how this would be? When Langerly is theirs, will she kill me then? And what of my babe, if there be one? She felt herself drowning in regret. Tell him. Tell him now before this poison seeps any further.
But she could not. So deeply did she love him that perfidy seemed a small price to pay to keep him safe. Summoning all her courage, she met his gaze. “I will make this marriage.”
He drew in a long breath. “As you wish, my lady.” His voice sounded hollow, neither angry nor sad, and it was impossible to tell from the look on his face what he was feeling. A horrid hush filled the chamber during which his dark eyes tore into her like hungry wolves. In the rushlight the scar on his cheek took on an ominous look, and the face that stared back at her bore a harsh resemblance to Kenric, numbing her to the bone. His strain was visible in the rigid way he reached for his swordbelt and strapped it back on.
“Your words of love were false then,” he said.
“I—I was confused.”
“Were your eyes confused when they looked upon me with love in the tower? The way they look upon me now?”
“My eyes betray me when they are weary,” she said absently.
“And if I were to take you now, right here on the floor of your chamber, would your body betray you?”
Rowan struggled to maintain her composure. The dangerous look on his handsome face told her he might make good on it and, God help her, she would have let him. She longed for the sensation of his hands on her skin, the touch of his lips, to bury her face in his long, tangled hair and feel the weight of his body pressing down on hers. The green scent of the midnight woodlands beyond the window was lost in the hot, vibrant scent of him. The blood pounded through her veins, causing a deafening roar in her ears.
But it was more than that which caused Rowan to back slowly away from him. His eyes darkened like storm clouds and there was a look in them that she had never seen before, a sulfurous, mutinous look, and she knew with cold certainty that if she were to give herself to him now, there would be no tenderness in their coupling.
“I—I have something for you,” she said nervously. She picked up the clothes and held them out to him.
He cast a disdainful look at them and said, “Wulfric is about my size. Give them to your husband.”
Rowan bit back her tears. “As you wish.”
Gareth turned to go. At the door he paused to aim a contemptuous look back at her. The rushlights cast an ominous glow over him, causing his mail to sparkle with a sinister light and his face to take on the look of a stranger’s. “I wonder. On your wedding night, when Wulfric takes you to his bed, will it be his name you call in your heart…or mine?”
FIREHAWK
“Bet ya thought ya’d never see me again,” he said.
She shook her head, her red hair rustling in the night wind. “Chango said you’d find us.”
“Coulda kept goin’,” he said with a lazy grin, “but there were things I needed to come back for.”
“Yes. Your tomahawk and the belt of wampum.”
He smiled devilishly at her from across the fire. “Among other things.”
From where he sat crosslegged before the fire Chango rolled his eyes and got up. When he had disappeared into the night, Alice said to Nathaniel, “He doesn’t like me much, does he?”
“He likes ya better than ya know,” he said as he rose from his spot. He came forward and dropped to the ground beside her. Nodding toward the blanket, he said, “It’s a might cold. Do ya mind sharin’?”
Alice’s heart gave a thump in her chest. She made a little wordless sound as she lifted one end of the blanket and held it open for him.
He moved in close and drew the blanket over their shoulders.
A shiver seized her, not caused by the cold this time, but by the nearness of him. She was afraid to look at him, afraid to reveal with her eyes how desperately she wanted to lean against him, to be gathered into his arms, to feel his warmth and the safety that came from his strength. She could feel his gaze burning into her. Slowly she turned her face to him. The frosty moonlight caressed his face, sharpening the strong line of his jaw, etching his cheekbones and deepening the darkness of his eyes. His black hair brushed the shoulders of his deerskin jacket, catching the firelight along each strand.
She trembled from head to food when he reached up and brushed the hair from her face, his touch lingering on her cheek. He was smiling, the beautiful curve of his mouth teasing and inviting.
“Ya see it up there?” He leaned his head close to hers and pointed upward to a star that shone brightly in the cloudless sky. “The love star.”
“Is that what the Mohawk call it?” she asked.
“No. It’s one of the few memories I have of my ma. She’d point to it and say, ‘See that star up there, Nathaniel? That’s the love star. It burns brightest when someone loves ya as much as I do.’” He looked back at her, his gaze lingering on her lips. “I got me a powerful urge to kiss ya.”
Alice lowered her gaze and blushed. She could feel his breath against her lashes, his finger beneath her chin lifting her face back up to his.
He kissed her.
She made a small sound in her throat as the taste of him flooded into her and the scent that emanated from his hair filled her senses to bursting. This was not at all like the powerful kiss in the alley in Albany, nor the desperate kiss of a man shackled in irons. This kiss was filled with heat and sweetness, with yearning, and the promise of so much more.
A hot need welled up inside of her. She reached up and touched his face. His skin was warmed by the fire, the flesh taut and smooth. Her hand moved to the back of his neck, to the long, dark hair that captured the scent of the forest and felt like thick ribbons of silk between her fingers. She gasped for air when his tongue met hers and his arm wound around her waist, drawing her up against his chest.
The sound of the wind was obliterated by the pounding in her ears. The frosty air was warmed by the heat rising from her body.
“Alice. Sweet Alice.”
His voice was hoarse and ragged against her lips, the sound of her name driving her beyond reason. She moved easily into his arms, eager for more of him, all of him. Her flesh jumped when his lips slid to her neck and nibbled at the tender flesh.
Touch me, she wanted to scream. Oh please, touch me.
But his hands remained firmly planted where they were, one resting on her hip, the other at the back of her head. She could feel his fingers quivering, as if he heard her silent plea and was battling with himself over whether or not to heed it. And then, he paused and drew back, leaving her flesh bare and aching for his touch.
He released her and sat back. “This ain’t the place for love-makin’,” he said, a tremor of regret rifling his tone as he slipped from the blanket and got up.
Alice’s cheeks burned scarlet, not from embarrassment, but from the rush of excitement that coursed through her. “I…I…you’re right.” She took a deep breath and pulled the blanket back around herself. “Montreal is a long way off, and—”
“We ain’t goin’ to Montreal,” he said.
She stared up at him, confused. “What are you saying? You promised to take me to Montreal.”
“The snow’s too deep and the waters are clogged with ice. The goin’ would be too rough.”
Alice jumped to her feet, the blanket pooling around her ankles. “But what about Billy?”
“Billy won’t matter if ya die of the cold, Alice.”
“No! You can’t go back on it. You promised!”
Nathaniel looked into her eyes where tears were already forming, the lashes wet and spiky. “We’ll have to wait out the winter.”
“Wait it out?” she echoed, her voice a shrill sound against the night. She could feel the panic rising in her blood. “Where?”
“At the Mohawk village. Me and Chango talked about it. We think it’s best to wait till spring.”
An owl hooted from a frost-filled bough. Somewhere deep in the woods a wolf howled, its call answered from far-off. Alice just stood there, her lips compressed into a thin line, a wave of disappointment washing over her. She drew in a long shuddering breath. Spring seemed a long way off. Just minutes ago she had been filled with heat and hope. Suddenly, she felt cold and lost, so lost, with no home to go back to and only uncertainty ahead. She lifted her face toward the sky. The love star was gone.
“Bet ya thought ya’d never see me again,” he said.
She shook her head, her red hair rustling in the night wind. “Chango said you’d find us.”
“Coulda kept goin’,” he said with a lazy grin, “but there were things I needed to come back for.”
“Yes. Your tomahawk and the belt of wampum.”
He smiled devilishly at her from across the fire. “Among other things.”
From where he sat crosslegged before the fire Chango rolled his eyes and got up. When he had disappeared into the night, Alice said to Nathaniel, “He doesn’t like me much, does he?”
“He likes ya better than ya know,” he said as he rose from his spot. He came forward and dropped to the ground beside her. Nodding toward the blanket, he said, “It’s a might cold. Do ya mind sharin’?”
Alice’s heart gave a thump in her chest. She made a little wordless sound as she lifted one end of the blanket and held it open for him.
He moved in close and drew the blanket over their shoulders.
A shiver seized her, not caused by the cold this time, but by the nearness of him. She was afraid to look at him, afraid to reveal with her eyes how desperately she wanted to lean against him, to be gathered into his arms, to feel his warmth and the safety that came from his strength. She could feel his gaze burning into her. Slowly she turned her face to him. The frosty moonlight caressed his face, sharpening the strong line of his jaw, etching his cheekbones and deepening the darkness of his eyes. His black hair brushed the shoulders of his deerskin jacket, catching the firelight along each strand.
She trembled from head to food when he reached up and brushed the hair from her face, his touch lingering on her cheek. He was smiling, the beautiful curve of his mouth teasing and inviting.
“Ya see it up there?” He leaned his head close to hers and pointed upward to a star that shone brightly in the cloudless sky. “The love star.”
“Is that what the Mohawk call it?” she asked.
“No. It’s one of the few memories I have of my ma. She’d point to it and say, ‘See that star up there, Nathaniel? That’s the love star. It burns brightest when someone loves ya as much as I do.’” He looked back at her, his gaze lingering on her lips. “I got me a powerful urge to kiss ya.”
Alice lowered her gaze and blushed. She could feel his breath against her lashes, his finger beneath her chin lifting her face back up to his.
He kissed her.
She made a small sound in her throat as the taste of him flooded into her and the scent that emanated from his hair filled her senses to bursting. This was not at all like the powerful kiss in the alley in Albany, nor the desperate kiss of a man shackled in irons. This kiss was filled with heat and sweetness, with yearning, and the promise of so much more.
A hot need welled up inside of her. She reached up and touched his face. His skin was warmed by the fire, the flesh taut and smooth. Her hand moved to the back of his neck, to the long, dark hair that captured the scent of the forest and felt like thick ribbons of silk between her fingers. She gasped for air when his tongue met hers and his arm wound around her waist, drawing her up against his chest.
The sound of the wind was obliterated by the pounding in her ears. The frosty air was warmed by the heat rising from her body.
“Alice. Sweet Alice.”
His voice was hoarse and ragged against her lips, the sound of her name driving her beyond reason. She moved easily into his arms, eager for more of him, all of him. Her flesh jumped when his lips slid to her neck and nibbled at the tender flesh.
Touch me, she wanted to scream. Oh please, touch me.
But his hands remained firmly planted where they were, one resting on her hip, the other at the back of her head. She could feel his fingers quivering, as if he heard her silent plea and was battling with himself over whether or not to heed it. And then, he paused and drew back, leaving her flesh bare and aching for his touch.
He released her and sat back. “This ain’t the place for love-makin’,” he said, a tremor of regret rifling his tone as he slipped from the blanket and got up.
Alice’s cheeks burned scarlet, not from embarrassment, but from the rush of excitement that coursed through her. “I…I…you’re right.” She took a deep breath and pulled the blanket back around herself. “Montreal is a long way off, and—”
“We ain’t goin’ to Montreal,” he said.
She stared up at him, confused. “What are you saying? You promised to take me to Montreal.”
“The snow’s too deep and the waters are clogged with ice. The goin’ would be too rough.”
Alice jumped to her feet, the blanket pooling around her ankles. “But what about Billy?”
“Billy won’t matter if ya die of the cold, Alice.”
“No! You can’t go back on it. You promised!”
Nathaniel looked into her eyes where tears were already forming, the lashes wet and spiky. “We’ll have to wait out the winter.”
“Wait it out?” she echoed, her voice a shrill sound against the night. She could feel the panic rising in her blood. “Where?”
“At the Mohawk village. Me and Chango talked about it. We think it’s best to wait till spring.”
An owl hooted from a frost-filled bough. Somewhere deep in the woods a wolf howled, its call answered from far-off. Alice just stood there, her lips compressed into a thin line, a wave of disappointment washing over her. She drew in a long shuddering breath. Spring seemed a long way off. Just minutes ago she had been filled with heat and hope. Suddenly, she felt cold and lost, so lost, with no home to go back to and only uncertainty ahead. She lifted her face toward the sky. The love star was gone.
BLOOD RHAPSODY
Her shoes clattered on the cobblestones as she hurried down the street. Something, she knew not what, compelled her to look up. There, on the far side of the street was a face she had come to recognize only too well.
He stood there watching her, his amazing green eyes shining like beacons out of the perpetual mist, the barest hint of a smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
Pru struggled for composure. Her throat felt so arid she thought she would choke. She remained rooted to her spot unable to move, until she saw him take a step in her direction, and then she backed away slowly. She could not face him, not after last night. Tearing her gaze from his, she turned and started to run, straight into the path of an oncoming coach.
The coachman yelled for her to get the bloody hell out of the way. The grating rattle of wheels against the cobblestones loomed in her ears. The hot breath of the horses was upon her, the smell of the froth on their coats overbearing as they bore down on her.
It all happened so fast. One moment she was standing in the middle of the crowded street, looking back over her shoulder at Nicolae. In the next instant her basket of produce and meats was airborne as she was tackled to the ground with an unceremonious jolt that sent her senses reeling. The coachman cussed as he careened on past. There was a concerted gasp from the onlookers. She felt herself being lifted to her feet and righted on wobbly legs. When her eyes finally stopped rolling around in her head and her vision cleared, she found herself looking into Nicolae’s handsome face.
“W—what?” Her head whirled around to the place where he’d been standing only moments ago, then back to where he was now, within mere inches, his hands firmly clasped about her waist. “How did you…?” Bewilderment brightened her eyes. It simply wasn’t possible for him to have reached her so fast. Why, she hadn’t even seen him move. She shook her head to clear the confusion. “You were just…there.” She pointed a trembling finger to where he’d been. “And now you’re…here.” And holding her much too tightly, of that she was suddenly acutely aware. With a quaking breath, she squirmed away from him.
Nicolae took a step back. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, quite,” she replied as she patted the dust from her cloak and ran her palms over her dress to smooth the wrinkles. “I suppose I should thank you. If you hadn’t been so…so…quick, I shudder to think what would have become of me.”
He bowed courteously. “It was my pleasure.”
Pleasure. The word conjured up all sorts of memories that Pru wanted desperately to forget. She drew back, frowning. “Do not mistake my thanks for friendship,” she told him. “Not after the liberties you took with me last night. Or perhaps you think I have forgotten your ungentlemanly behavior.”
His smile froze and faded from his face, his mouth now forming a savage little line. “I never claimed to be a gentleman.” He chuckled, a flash of mockery in his tone. “On the contrary, I fully admit to being a very bad man.”
Pru’s mortification was complete. And to think, she had actually entertained the preposterous notion that she was attracted to this rake. Whatever charm she imagined he possessed was lost in the narrowed eyes and the shadowed mouth and the awful truth that she’d been used by a clever debaucher. “It appears I have been mistaken about you,” she announced.
“How so?” he asked, although the lazy lifting of his brows seemed to indicate his utter disinterest in her reply.
“You are not the person whose soul I thought I glimpsed through your music. Why, you, sir, have no soul at all.”
His look turned hard, almost vicious, for a moment, causing her to shrink in fear of retribution. Then he laughed, so hard that his shoulders shook beneath his cloak, but the frigid sound left little doubt that he was not amused. “So, you have discovered that about me, have you? And shall I tell you what I have discovered about you?”
“I’ve no wish to hear it.” She cast a look around for her basket and gave out with a little cry of distress to find its contents strewn about the street, the eggs broken and their runny contents spreading over the cobblestones. She gathered her purchases and placed them in the battered basket, all the while muttering under her breath. When she was done, she straightened up, whirled around to face him, and exclaimed, “You are a detestable man.”
“You seemed not to mind last night.”
She sucked in her breath. “I…I was not myself last night.”
“Well, whoever you were,” he said mockingly, “was most accommodating. And may I add, not the least bit shy about it. You were made for it, you know.”
“Oh!” Her shoes clacked furiously against the cobblestones as she stormed off.
His boot heels made no sound at all when he fell into place beside her. “I meant that as a compliment. Some women spend their entire lives learning the skills with which to please a man. You seem to come by them quite naturally.”
Pru ground her eyes shut at the possibility that there was more to last night’s escapades than what she was able to recall. “Oh, do shut up.” Frustration made her sound uncharacteristically harsh.
“That’s just one of the things I discovered about you,” he went on in a teasing and dangerous voice. “Another is that you pretend to be modest, but beneath your unassuming manner of dress and your almost-convincing meekness beats a heart that burns for passion. I wonder if your fiancé knows what a little Messalina you are.”
Having been educated in the liberal arts at Mrs. Draper’s School for Girls, she had learned Latin, Italian, geography and enough Roman history to know that Messalina, the wife of the emperor Claudius, was a woman of uncommonly loose morals. The comparison was dreadful enough, but what was even more shocking was the apparent ease with which he had looked past her veneer to her secret longings. How was it possible for him to know this thing about her innermost self that was only just awakening within her? A lucky guess, although she would never admit it to the likes of him. “I no longer have a fiancé,” she said. “I broke it off today, not that it’s any of your business.”
“I see. Is there anything I can do to take your mind off your broken betrothal?”
Astonished, she said, “Certainly not.”
With sugary sweetness, he ventured, “Not even if I were to play a piece I composed especially for you?”
“I doubt anything you do is for anyone but yourself.”
“I take that to mean you do not want to hear it? Very well. But it may interest you to know that I have decided to take you up on your offer to play the suite I finished for your father at the concert next month. I was on my way to make the arrangements when you were so very nearly flattened by the coach. And how is your father? Has his condition improved?”
She detested that condescending tone and note of false concern and was sorry she had asked him to play the piece at Vauxhall Gardens. But his inquiry into Papa’s health thrust all other misgivings aside. When she left Papa last night, his face had looked so pale and drawn that whatever wild hope had invaded her heart for his recovery had been all but dashed. She heaved a beleaguered sigh, and admitted, “Not well.”
“Would you care to walk with me to the quay?”
Pru looked at him, mystified by the change. How could he be so malicious one moment and so beguiling the next? So heartless and then so caring? What cruel sport was this? And why, despite every reason she had to mistrust and to hate him, did she feel herself softening beneath his beautiful green gaze? Struggling to wipe her feelings from her face, she stiffened her resolve, and asked, “For what purpose?”
He answered truthfully, “I go there sometimes at night to watch the ships when I feel lonely. The sight of their dark sails coming and going fills me with a sense of…I don’t know…meaning, I suppose.”
He’s lying, flashed through her mind. But the expression on his face, so downfallen, so heartfelt, gave her pause. A paralyzed silence fell over them during which Pru floundered for words to say.
Just then, the clouds parted a little to reveal a rare blue sky with the sun peeking through. At the first faint ray that slanted across his path, Nicolae thrust his head downward. “Perhaps another time,” he said quickly. “I must go.” But before he took his leave, he brought his face close to hers and whispered diabolically, “The day will come when you will seek me out for your pleasure, and I will be waiting.”
With that, he was gone, disappearing through the throng as quickly as he had appeared a short while ago, leaving her standing in the middle of the crowded street, her mouth agape at the scandalous prophecy, her sensibilities reeling, and a thrill unlike any she’d ever known careening through her blood.
Her shoes clattered on the cobblestones as she hurried down the street. Something, she knew not what, compelled her to look up. There, on the far side of the street was a face she had come to recognize only too well.
He stood there watching her, his amazing green eyes shining like beacons out of the perpetual mist, the barest hint of a smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
Pru struggled for composure. Her throat felt so arid she thought she would choke. She remained rooted to her spot unable to move, until she saw him take a step in her direction, and then she backed away slowly. She could not face him, not after last night. Tearing her gaze from his, she turned and started to run, straight into the path of an oncoming coach.
The coachman yelled for her to get the bloody hell out of the way. The grating rattle of wheels against the cobblestones loomed in her ears. The hot breath of the horses was upon her, the smell of the froth on their coats overbearing as they bore down on her.
It all happened so fast. One moment she was standing in the middle of the crowded street, looking back over her shoulder at Nicolae. In the next instant her basket of produce and meats was airborne as she was tackled to the ground with an unceremonious jolt that sent her senses reeling. The coachman cussed as he careened on past. There was a concerted gasp from the onlookers. She felt herself being lifted to her feet and righted on wobbly legs. When her eyes finally stopped rolling around in her head and her vision cleared, she found herself looking into Nicolae’s handsome face.
“W—what?” Her head whirled around to the place where he’d been standing only moments ago, then back to where he was now, within mere inches, his hands firmly clasped about her waist. “How did you…?” Bewilderment brightened her eyes. It simply wasn’t possible for him to have reached her so fast. Why, she hadn’t even seen him move. She shook her head to clear the confusion. “You were just…there.” She pointed a trembling finger to where he’d been. “And now you’re…here.” And holding her much too tightly, of that she was suddenly acutely aware. With a quaking breath, she squirmed away from him.
Nicolae took a step back. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, quite,” she replied as she patted the dust from her cloak and ran her palms over her dress to smooth the wrinkles. “I suppose I should thank you. If you hadn’t been so…so…quick, I shudder to think what would have become of me.”
He bowed courteously. “It was my pleasure.”
Pleasure. The word conjured up all sorts of memories that Pru wanted desperately to forget. She drew back, frowning. “Do not mistake my thanks for friendship,” she told him. “Not after the liberties you took with me last night. Or perhaps you think I have forgotten your ungentlemanly behavior.”
His smile froze and faded from his face, his mouth now forming a savage little line. “I never claimed to be a gentleman.” He chuckled, a flash of mockery in his tone. “On the contrary, I fully admit to being a very bad man.”
Pru’s mortification was complete. And to think, she had actually entertained the preposterous notion that she was attracted to this rake. Whatever charm she imagined he possessed was lost in the narrowed eyes and the shadowed mouth and the awful truth that she’d been used by a clever debaucher. “It appears I have been mistaken about you,” she announced.
“How so?” he asked, although the lazy lifting of his brows seemed to indicate his utter disinterest in her reply.
“You are not the person whose soul I thought I glimpsed through your music. Why, you, sir, have no soul at all.”
His look turned hard, almost vicious, for a moment, causing her to shrink in fear of retribution. Then he laughed, so hard that his shoulders shook beneath his cloak, but the frigid sound left little doubt that he was not amused. “So, you have discovered that about me, have you? And shall I tell you what I have discovered about you?”
“I’ve no wish to hear it.” She cast a look around for her basket and gave out with a little cry of distress to find its contents strewn about the street, the eggs broken and their runny contents spreading over the cobblestones. She gathered her purchases and placed them in the battered basket, all the while muttering under her breath. When she was done, she straightened up, whirled around to face him, and exclaimed, “You are a detestable man.”
“You seemed not to mind last night.”
She sucked in her breath. “I…I was not myself last night.”
“Well, whoever you were,” he said mockingly, “was most accommodating. And may I add, not the least bit shy about it. You were made for it, you know.”
“Oh!” Her shoes clacked furiously against the cobblestones as she stormed off.
His boot heels made no sound at all when he fell into place beside her. “I meant that as a compliment. Some women spend their entire lives learning the skills with which to please a man. You seem to come by them quite naturally.”
Pru ground her eyes shut at the possibility that there was more to last night’s escapades than what she was able to recall. “Oh, do shut up.” Frustration made her sound uncharacteristically harsh.
“That’s just one of the things I discovered about you,” he went on in a teasing and dangerous voice. “Another is that you pretend to be modest, but beneath your unassuming manner of dress and your almost-convincing meekness beats a heart that burns for passion. I wonder if your fiancé knows what a little Messalina you are.”
Having been educated in the liberal arts at Mrs. Draper’s School for Girls, she had learned Latin, Italian, geography and enough Roman history to know that Messalina, the wife of the emperor Claudius, was a woman of uncommonly loose morals. The comparison was dreadful enough, but what was even more shocking was the apparent ease with which he had looked past her veneer to her secret longings. How was it possible for him to know this thing about her innermost self that was only just awakening within her? A lucky guess, although she would never admit it to the likes of him. “I no longer have a fiancé,” she said. “I broke it off today, not that it’s any of your business.”
“I see. Is there anything I can do to take your mind off your broken betrothal?”
Astonished, she said, “Certainly not.”
With sugary sweetness, he ventured, “Not even if I were to play a piece I composed especially for you?”
“I doubt anything you do is for anyone but yourself.”
“I take that to mean you do not want to hear it? Very well. But it may interest you to know that I have decided to take you up on your offer to play the suite I finished for your father at the concert next month. I was on my way to make the arrangements when you were so very nearly flattened by the coach. And how is your father? Has his condition improved?”
She detested that condescending tone and note of false concern and was sorry she had asked him to play the piece at Vauxhall Gardens. But his inquiry into Papa’s health thrust all other misgivings aside. When she left Papa last night, his face had looked so pale and drawn that whatever wild hope had invaded her heart for his recovery had been all but dashed. She heaved a beleaguered sigh, and admitted, “Not well.”
“Would you care to walk with me to the quay?”
Pru looked at him, mystified by the change. How could he be so malicious one moment and so beguiling the next? So heartless and then so caring? What cruel sport was this? And why, despite every reason she had to mistrust and to hate him, did she feel herself softening beneath his beautiful green gaze? Struggling to wipe her feelings from her face, she stiffened her resolve, and asked, “For what purpose?”
He answered truthfully, “I go there sometimes at night to watch the ships when I feel lonely. The sight of their dark sails coming and going fills me with a sense of…I don’t know…meaning, I suppose.”
He’s lying, flashed through her mind. But the expression on his face, so downfallen, so heartfelt, gave her pause. A paralyzed silence fell over them during which Pru floundered for words to say.
Just then, the clouds parted a little to reveal a rare blue sky with the sun peeking through. At the first faint ray that slanted across his path, Nicolae thrust his head downward. “Perhaps another time,” he said quickly. “I must go.” But before he took his leave, he brought his face close to hers and whispered diabolically, “The day will come when you will seek me out for your pleasure, and I will be waiting.”
With that, he was gone, disappearing through the throng as quickly as he had appeared a short while ago, leaving her standing in the middle of the crowded street, her mouth agape at the scandalous prophecy, her sensibilities reeling, and a thrill unlike any she’d ever known careening through her blood.
SEA MISTRESS
Raven lay in bed asleep, the covers thrown back against the heat of the night. The moon peeked through the branches outside the window to bathe the room with vapory light. A sheen of perspiration glistened over her flesh, making it look like glass in the pearly moonlight.
For many long minutes he stood there gazing down at her, studying the black lashes fanned against unblemished cheeks, the perfect little rosebud mouth, the contrast of her dark hair spread against the pale pillow, the soft rise and fall of her breasts, her legs that were spread in the most provocative manner. His desire hardened.
Why had he come here when she had shown no care at all for his well being earlier in the day?
He had left the dueling oaks in a cruel and angry mood. He had returned with Marcel to the cottage on Saint Peter where he had yanked off his shirt and thrown it onto a chair in disgust and proceeded to down enough brandy to intoxicate him under ordinary circumstances. But he was too cross to get drunk, the drink doing no more than fanning the flames of his ire. Marcel was right. He should forget about the heartless woman. His jaw tightened. Damn her. He should head straight for Rampart Street and find himself a warm and willing woman who would be all teary-eyed over his narrow escape and offer him the same comfort Raven had given Broussard. Yet he had not turned his horse’s head toward the ramparts. Instead, he had ridden here tonight and tethered his horse on the street and waited in the shadows like a fool for the candles to be extinguished before climbing the trellis to her second floor bedroom.
The anger that had flooded him earlier dissipated at the sight of her. The bed sagged with his weight when he sat down on its edge. With the tip of his finger he gently brushed a strand of hair from her face. His hand slid to the warm pulsing at her neck. Her flesh was like a flame, his touch a moth drawn to its irresistible appeal.
The caress stirred Raven into semi-awareness. Her eyes fluttered open, and for several moments she hovered mid-way between sleep and awakening. Then she sprang fully awake. With the speed of a frightened gazelle, she scrambled to her knees away from him, her back pressed against the headboard.
“What do you want?” she gasped.
“I leave New Orleans in the morning,” he said. “I thought you might send me off with a fond farewell.”
Cautiously, she replied, “Why should I?”
“Because I damn near got myself killed today thanks to you. That’s right,” he went on in response to her mouth dropping open. “It was you who suggested that we do the honorable thing, remember?”
“I never meant for you to nearly kill each other with pistols.”
“Would you have preferred foils?”
“You’re insufferable,” she hissed.
“That’s the way things are done here, my sweet. Anything is an excuse for a duel. A political argument, a difference of opinion.” His look hardened in the darkness. “Even a quarrel between rival lovers.”
Raven sucked in her breath at his audacity. “Is that what you think Paul is to me?”
“You certainly showed him enough attention today. Or was that just friendly concern?”
“I don’t owe you any explanations. What are you doing here, anyway? I told you, I don’t want to speak to you.”
“I know what you said, and I want to know the reason for this sudden turnabout.”
“The nerve of you coming here like a thief in the night demanding explanations from me, when I am the one who is owed an explanation.”
“For what?”
Stubborn pride prevented her from admitting that she was wounded over what she witnessed in Marcel’s courtyard. “You lied to me. You said you found Toby.”
“I did.”
“Then where is he?”
“I didn’t say I brought him with me, only that I found him.”
“Oh, you’re a vile man. You tricked me into…into…” Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the intimacies they had shared.
“As I recall, we had a bargain. I was simply on the receiving end. Although, if I am any judge, and I think I am, you appeared to get some, shall we say, enjoyment, out of it. My compliments, beauty. You were born for it.”
Detesting that deep mocking tone, she demanded, “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you were made for loving, Raven. For the feel of a man touching you and kissing you and burying himself deep inside of you. Don’t look so shocked. It’s a rare treat to find a woman who takes to it with such exuberance.”
“What shocks me is your presumption that whatever exuberance you think I exhibited will ever be repeated.”
He rose from the bed and walked to the window, where he moved the curtain aside with a finger and peered outside. “I have just bestowed upon you a very high compliment, my sweet, and here you are, ranting at me like I am the lowest slug alive.”
“You told me you found Toby,” she persisted.
He responded wearily, “And I did find him.”
“Where is he?”
“Ah, now if I tell you that, you might get it in your pretty little head to go after him yourself. You do have a reckless streak which, I might add, I find quite charming. But as resourceful as you are, Raven, this is far too dangerous for you to get involved.”
“You’re just saying that to frighten me,” she charged.
He turned away from the window and leveled a long look at her from across the room. “The marshes of Barataria are frightening.”
“Barataria? It’s true, then. The pirates have him.”
“Locked in a barracoon. Now do you see why I cannot let you go after him?”
“But someone must.”
“And someone will, but it won’t be you. Now, like I said, I leave in the morning.”
“For Natchez?” she questioned suspiciously.
“Yes. And while I’m gone, I want you to stay away from Barataria.”
“As it happens, it behooves me to remain in New Orleans.”
“Oh yes,” he drawled. “Broussard. Are you planning to hold a vigil at his bedside?”
“I see no reason to tell you of my plans.”
“I hear Broussard makes no secret of his dislike for Americans,” he noted. “Yet he appears to like you well enough. Maybe even a little too well.”
“That’s because he thinks I’m French.”
He lifted a dark brow at her. “And why does he think that?”
“Because that is what he was told.”
“By whom?”
“By D’Arcy. If you must know, he thinks I am D’Arcy’s niece.”
He chuckled softly with amusement. “What a little Messalina you are. First, a widow, although we both know the truth of that. And now D’Arcy’s niece, and French to the bargain, with the most delightful Virginia accent I’ve ever heard. I’m afraid to ask what’s next.”
“That, Monsieur, is none of your business.”
“Oh, Monsieur, it is now? You were not so formal the last time I was here.”
Raven’s muscles tensed at the reminder of how easily she had surrendered to him. “I made an unfortunate mistake. An error in judgment. You can be certain it will not happen again.”
For a moment the mocking humor fled from his eyes, leaving them bare with confusion. “What is it, Raven? Why have you suddenly turned so disagreeable? I told you I would bring Toby back to you, and I shall.”
She could not bring herself to speak about what she had witnessed in Marcel’s courtyard, feeling foolish enough for having thought herself in love with the heartless rogue. Why humiliate herself further by admitting how badly his betrayal had wounded her?
“I’ll tell you what it is,” she said in an angry whisper, careful to keep her voice down so as not to awaken D’Arcy. “Not only must I find Dominique Sauvinet by myself, but now it appears I’ll have to find Toby myself as well. And if you think—”
“Hold it!” His palm came up to silence her. “What’s this about finding Dominique Sauvinet?”
“Just as I said. I must find him.”
Stunned, he asked, “What on earth for?”
She hesitated, not daring to tell him any more when she had already revealed too much. “I just have to, that’s all.”
“That is not all,” he said roughly. “You have no business with him. Do you know what kind of man he is? What he is capable of? I won’t have you traipsing after some privateer.”
“You won’t have it? Just who do you think you are, telling me what you won’t have? I think you should leave. Our business with each other is finished.”
His golden eyes danced over her like tiny lanterns gleaming out of the darkness.
In a cold and dangerous voice, he replied, “Nay, beauty, our business is just beginning.”
Raven lay in bed asleep, the covers thrown back against the heat of the night. The moon peeked through the branches outside the window to bathe the room with vapory light. A sheen of perspiration glistened over her flesh, making it look like glass in the pearly moonlight.
For many long minutes he stood there gazing down at her, studying the black lashes fanned against unblemished cheeks, the perfect little rosebud mouth, the contrast of her dark hair spread against the pale pillow, the soft rise and fall of her breasts, her legs that were spread in the most provocative manner. His desire hardened.
Why had he come here when she had shown no care at all for his well being earlier in the day?
He had left the dueling oaks in a cruel and angry mood. He had returned with Marcel to the cottage on Saint Peter where he had yanked off his shirt and thrown it onto a chair in disgust and proceeded to down enough brandy to intoxicate him under ordinary circumstances. But he was too cross to get drunk, the drink doing no more than fanning the flames of his ire. Marcel was right. He should forget about the heartless woman. His jaw tightened. Damn her. He should head straight for Rampart Street and find himself a warm and willing woman who would be all teary-eyed over his narrow escape and offer him the same comfort Raven had given Broussard. Yet he had not turned his horse’s head toward the ramparts. Instead, he had ridden here tonight and tethered his horse on the street and waited in the shadows like a fool for the candles to be extinguished before climbing the trellis to her second floor bedroom.
The anger that had flooded him earlier dissipated at the sight of her. The bed sagged with his weight when he sat down on its edge. With the tip of his finger he gently brushed a strand of hair from her face. His hand slid to the warm pulsing at her neck. Her flesh was like a flame, his touch a moth drawn to its irresistible appeal.
The caress stirred Raven into semi-awareness. Her eyes fluttered open, and for several moments she hovered mid-way between sleep and awakening. Then she sprang fully awake. With the speed of a frightened gazelle, she scrambled to her knees away from him, her back pressed against the headboard.
“What do you want?” she gasped.
“I leave New Orleans in the morning,” he said. “I thought you might send me off with a fond farewell.”
Cautiously, she replied, “Why should I?”
“Because I damn near got myself killed today thanks to you. That’s right,” he went on in response to her mouth dropping open. “It was you who suggested that we do the honorable thing, remember?”
“I never meant for you to nearly kill each other with pistols.”
“Would you have preferred foils?”
“You’re insufferable,” she hissed.
“That’s the way things are done here, my sweet. Anything is an excuse for a duel. A political argument, a difference of opinion.” His look hardened in the darkness. “Even a quarrel between rival lovers.”
Raven sucked in her breath at his audacity. “Is that what you think Paul is to me?”
“You certainly showed him enough attention today. Or was that just friendly concern?”
“I don’t owe you any explanations. What are you doing here, anyway? I told you, I don’t want to speak to you.”
“I know what you said, and I want to know the reason for this sudden turnabout.”
“The nerve of you coming here like a thief in the night demanding explanations from me, when I am the one who is owed an explanation.”
“For what?”
Stubborn pride prevented her from admitting that she was wounded over what she witnessed in Marcel’s courtyard. “You lied to me. You said you found Toby.”
“I did.”
“Then where is he?”
“I didn’t say I brought him with me, only that I found him.”
“Oh, you’re a vile man. You tricked me into…into…” Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment at the intimacies they had shared.
“As I recall, we had a bargain. I was simply on the receiving end. Although, if I am any judge, and I think I am, you appeared to get some, shall we say, enjoyment, out of it. My compliments, beauty. You were born for it.”
Detesting that deep mocking tone, she demanded, “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you were made for loving, Raven. For the feel of a man touching you and kissing you and burying himself deep inside of you. Don’t look so shocked. It’s a rare treat to find a woman who takes to it with such exuberance.”
“What shocks me is your presumption that whatever exuberance you think I exhibited will ever be repeated.”
He rose from the bed and walked to the window, where he moved the curtain aside with a finger and peered outside. “I have just bestowed upon you a very high compliment, my sweet, and here you are, ranting at me like I am the lowest slug alive.”
“You told me you found Toby,” she persisted.
He responded wearily, “And I did find him.”
“Where is he?”
“Ah, now if I tell you that, you might get it in your pretty little head to go after him yourself. You do have a reckless streak which, I might add, I find quite charming. But as resourceful as you are, Raven, this is far too dangerous for you to get involved.”
“You’re just saying that to frighten me,” she charged.
He turned away from the window and leveled a long look at her from across the room. “The marshes of Barataria are frightening.”
“Barataria? It’s true, then. The pirates have him.”
“Locked in a barracoon. Now do you see why I cannot let you go after him?”
“But someone must.”
“And someone will, but it won’t be you. Now, like I said, I leave in the morning.”
“For Natchez?” she questioned suspiciously.
“Yes. And while I’m gone, I want you to stay away from Barataria.”
“As it happens, it behooves me to remain in New Orleans.”
“Oh yes,” he drawled. “Broussard. Are you planning to hold a vigil at his bedside?”
“I see no reason to tell you of my plans.”
“I hear Broussard makes no secret of his dislike for Americans,” he noted. “Yet he appears to like you well enough. Maybe even a little too well.”
“That’s because he thinks I’m French.”
He lifted a dark brow at her. “And why does he think that?”
“Because that is what he was told.”
“By whom?”
“By D’Arcy. If you must know, he thinks I am D’Arcy’s niece.”
He chuckled softly with amusement. “What a little Messalina you are. First, a widow, although we both know the truth of that. And now D’Arcy’s niece, and French to the bargain, with the most delightful Virginia accent I’ve ever heard. I’m afraid to ask what’s next.”
“That, Monsieur, is none of your business.”
“Oh, Monsieur, it is now? You were not so formal the last time I was here.”
Raven’s muscles tensed at the reminder of how easily she had surrendered to him. “I made an unfortunate mistake. An error in judgment. You can be certain it will not happen again.”
For a moment the mocking humor fled from his eyes, leaving them bare with confusion. “What is it, Raven? Why have you suddenly turned so disagreeable? I told you I would bring Toby back to you, and I shall.”
She could not bring herself to speak about what she had witnessed in Marcel’s courtyard, feeling foolish enough for having thought herself in love with the heartless rogue. Why humiliate herself further by admitting how badly his betrayal had wounded her?
“I’ll tell you what it is,” she said in an angry whisper, careful to keep her voice down so as not to awaken D’Arcy. “Not only must I find Dominique Sauvinet by myself, but now it appears I’ll have to find Toby myself as well. And if you think—”
“Hold it!” His palm came up to silence her. “What’s this about finding Dominique Sauvinet?”
“Just as I said. I must find him.”
Stunned, he asked, “What on earth for?”
She hesitated, not daring to tell him any more when she had already revealed too much. “I just have to, that’s all.”
“That is not all,” he said roughly. “You have no business with him. Do you know what kind of man he is? What he is capable of? I won’t have you traipsing after some privateer.”
“You won’t have it? Just who do you think you are, telling me what you won’t have? I think you should leave. Our business with each other is finished.”
His golden eyes danced over her like tiny lanterns gleaming out of the darkness.
In a cold and dangerous voice, he replied, “Nay, beauty, our business is just beginning.”
WINTER WIND
Book 2 in the Native American Wild Wind Series
She did not feel the cold as she turned and ran to the lodge. Her heart jumped into her throat at the sound of a familiar deep voice bidding her to enter when she scratched at the flap. Flinging the hide aside, she rushed inside, and stopped. For an endless moment all she could do was look at him, feeding her starved heart with the sight of him.
He looked up from the bowstring he was waxing, an expression of disbelief on his face. A paralyzing silence filled the lodge as they looked at one another. After what seemed like an eternity, he laid the bow aside and rose. The fire glowed on the expanse of his bare chest, flickering around the edges of the scar on his chest just beneath his right shoulder, and illuminating the length of each muscular thigh.
Katie could scarcely breathe. She was seized by a wild yearning to touch him, to run her hands over the familiar flesh and twine her fingers in his long, dark hair, but all she could do was stand there and breathe in the essence of him from across the fire. She dared not move, for if this was a dream, she never wanted to awaken.
At last the figure she ached for moved. He took a step toward her. There was a half-smile on his handsome face.
And then, a movement from a corner of the lodge caught her attention. A young woman was sitting in the corner with Black Moon’s shirt in her lap. She came to stand beside him, placing a possessive hand on his arm.
The blood drained from Katie’s face as sudden comprehension split her brain. Black Moon was living with another woman. Anguish ripped through her, and the joy that flooded her being upon seeing him vanished like smoke from a dying fire.
He came forward, standing so close she could see the tiny lines etched around the corners of his eyes. Reaching out, he caught her hand in his.
“Katie.”
The sound of her name forced a tortured groan from her. Tearing her hand away, she took a step backwards. Shaking with sorrow, fury, grief and betrayal all at once, there was nothing to do but leave as quickly as she could. Stumbling to the entrance, she jerked the flap aside and ran out.
His voice carried out into the frozen air behind her. “Katie! Do not run away from me!”
She ran to her pony and jumped astride its back. With a savage kick, she took off at a gallop, not knowing where she was running to, only what she was running from.
Book 2 in the Native American Wild Wind Series
She did not feel the cold as she turned and ran to the lodge. Her heart jumped into her throat at the sound of a familiar deep voice bidding her to enter when she scratched at the flap. Flinging the hide aside, she rushed inside, and stopped. For an endless moment all she could do was look at him, feeding her starved heart with the sight of him.
He looked up from the bowstring he was waxing, an expression of disbelief on his face. A paralyzing silence filled the lodge as they looked at one another. After what seemed like an eternity, he laid the bow aside and rose. The fire glowed on the expanse of his bare chest, flickering around the edges of the scar on his chest just beneath his right shoulder, and illuminating the length of each muscular thigh.
Katie could scarcely breathe. She was seized by a wild yearning to touch him, to run her hands over the familiar flesh and twine her fingers in his long, dark hair, but all she could do was stand there and breathe in the essence of him from across the fire. She dared not move, for if this was a dream, she never wanted to awaken.
At last the figure she ached for moved. He took a step toward her. There was a half-smile on his handsome face.
And then, a movement from a corner of the lodge caught her attention. A young woman was sitting in the corner with Black Moon’s shirt in her lap. She came to stand beside him, placing a possessive hand on his arm.
The blood drained from Katie’s face as sudden comprehension split her brain. Black Moon was living with another woman. Anguish ripped through her, and the joy that flooded her being upon seeing him vanished like smoke from a dying fire.
He came forward, standing so close she could see the tiny lines etched around the corners of his eyes. Reaching out, he caught her hand in his.
“Katie.”
The sound of her name forced a tortured groan from her. Tearing her hand away, she took a step backwards. Shaking with sorrow, fury, grief and betrayal all at once, there was nothing to do but leave as quickly as she could. Stumbling to the entrance, she jerked the flap aside and ran out.
His voice carried out into the frozen air behind her. “Katie! Do not run away from me!”
She ran to her pony and jumped astride its back. With a savage kick, she took off at a gallop, not knowing where she was running to, only what she was running from.
THE KINCAIDS - DALLAS
Book 1 in the Kincaid Series
“Indians!”
A fear unlike anything Kate had ever known welled up inside of her. Her thoughts splintered into blackness, and her lungs froze. Paralyzed, all she could do was stand there, the wind whipping the tattered hem of her homespun dress around her ankles as the dust cloud coalesced into something alive.
“Gie yerself an’ th’ wee jimmies inside!” Fergus yelled.
She felt his hands pushing her toward the soddy, his fingers harsh, demanding that she act.
“The boys!” Kate’s voice tore from her throat, high-pitched and desperate. “Denver! Get your brother!”
“We’re coming ma!” she heard eight-year-old Denver shout.
Inside, Fergus pulled his rifle from its pegs on the wall, while Kate ran about frantically pulling the wooden shutters closed. They could hear the oxen bellowing in the tilled field and the hens squawking in the roost as the thunder of horses’ hooves exploded on all sides of the soddy.
“Gie doon!” Fergus shouted.
Obeying her husband’s panicked order to get down, Kate crouched against the wall of mud bricks as he aimed his rifle through a slit in the wooden shutter and fired.
The shot exploded in Kate’s ears. She felt herself shaking. At any moment the door would burst open and they would all be killed. But the moment she feared did not come.
The air outside filled with wild whoops and cries as the invaders swept past like a cold, dark wind. Had Fergus’s shot scared them off? Did they keep on going because they saw that there were no horses to steal?
Kate shrank back and looked at Fergus in horror. He met her eyes, and then moved his gaze about the room. His face turned white, and confusion seemed to overtake him.
From where she crouched against the wall, Kate felt trapped in the crushing grip of her husband’s expression. Tearing her stricken gaze away, she looked around. Denver was hiding beneath the clapboard table, and Dallas--
Where was Dallas? She glanced wildly about the room. “Denver, where’s your brother?”
“I was scared, ma. I didn’t—”
Her lungs froze and her heart exploded. Without waiting to hear more, she ran to the door and burst outside.
In her haste and confusion she hadn’t even noticed that Dallas had not made it inside, but an audible groan of relief spilled from her lips when she saw him by the river, the sunlight reflecting off the tufts of light brown hair that stuck out from beneath his straw hat. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and she caught herself thinking that he was such a handsome little fellow. She opened her mouth to call out to him, when suddenly, something big streaked past her in a cloud of dust and dirt. Blinking the haze from her vision, she watched in horror as an Indian astride a black horse bore down on the boy.
“No!”
Crying out, Kate plunged forward, calling upon every ounce of strength in her thin body to catch up to the boy. With panic rising in her throat, she thrust out her hand and managed to snag the wet sleeve of his hickory striped shirt. The straw hat flew from his head as she pulled him toward herself, but it was too late. The mounted Indian leaned to one side and yanked her son out of her grasp, sweeping him up onto the horse without breaking stride.
“Kate! Come back!”
Her husband’s shout was drowned out by the sound of her own heart-wrenching scream.
She ran after the retreating horse, stumbled, got up, and kept on running.
“Ma! Ma!”
Her son’s frantic cries for her were cut short by a fit of violent coughing. It was something he did whenever he was afraid. She’d always been able to comfort him and calm his fears, but not this time.
Far out onto the prairie she ran, until the horse and rider disappeared over the horizon, and all that remained of her son was the sound of his coughs echoing in her brain and a tattered straw hat skipping along the ground on a gust of wind.
