Lakota Princess
Page 6
A picture flashed in her mind, and her body, already drowsy with exhaustion, let the past remind her, let her recall, if only for a moment in sleep, the sweet passion of first love…
The sun was warm upon her skin that day, the prairie alive with the new growth of spring flowers and wild, green grasses. Not one person, not one animal could remain outside and be unaffected by the renewal of spring, by the life all about them. Perhaps it was her imagination, but the birds appeared to sing a little sweeter that day, the air seemed a little crisper, the warmth of sunshine felt a little kinder, gentler.
They had spent the day together so far, laughing at the squirrels, the prairie dogs, at that animal’s incessant chatter. And now they lay under a tree, a gurgling stream beside them, rushing on its way to carry its waters into some bigger stream or perhaps even a river. But they paid it no mind, their attention only half aware of the budding nature all around them.
He held her in his arms then, closely, as if he never wished to relinquish her, and she smiled at him, barely daring to believe that this handsome warrior stared back at her, his passion, his love for her clear to see.
“Mato Sapa,” she said, gathering a handful of his long, black hair in her hand. She lay on her back, and he positioned himself on his side so that he lay half over her, staring down into her eyes. “Will your mother welcome me into her family? I am, after all, white and her father was killed by white trappers.”
“She will love you as I do. She already does. She will welcome you into our family. It is not as though you are still white. Are you not a part of our tribe? Do you not have parents among our people? Will I not have to honor your father with many horses to make you mine?”
“Yes, but—”
“Shh.” He touched a finger to her lips. “You worry over much. I love you. It is enough.”
He kissed her then, and Estrela, or Waste Ho Win, Pretty Voice Woman, as she was called by the rest of her tribe, was lost to the consuming power of sweet passion.
She closed her eyes, his lips warm and responsive beneath hers. She let go of his hair to pull him closer to her, running her fingertips over the smooth expanse of his chest, glorying in the sensation that swept through her at his sharp intake of breath.
It was good, their love. It was sweet, wonderful. These were her last thoughts, for he was slipping his tongue into her mouth, letting her taste the heady flavor of his breath.
Rational thought ceased for her, replaced by raw feeling, and when he untied the straps of her dress, pulling it down farther and farther, slipping it off her completely so that she lay naked beneath his touch, she didn’t think once of protest. It was all she could do to keep up with the delicious sensation. His hand played over her skin, held her breasts, caressing them, his palm circling her nipples, and a response began to build between her legs that demanded all her attention, demanded appeasement.
She gyrated her hips toward him, wanting…wanting more—but what?
Mato Sapa seemed to know. Gliding his hand down over her stomach; he reached that place between her legs, letting his fingers explore her most secret, feminine beauty.
“Open your legs, my love.”
She did.
Ah, the feeling, the excitement, the sensuality. It was almost more than she could take, until…
Shuddering, he drew away, falling upon his back, away from her.
Estrela lay still for a long while, the shock of his withdrawal playing havoc with her own sense of propriety. She didn’t bother to dress. She didn’t cover herself. Unsure what to think, unsure what to say, she remained silent. And as the heat of passion grew less, she began to think, began to reason, and all at once she realized that by her actions today she brought shame to herself.
How could he possibly respect her now, want her for his wife? Wasn’t it true what the grandfathers said? That a woman who let a man lay with her before marriage, was worthless? She berated herself silently before venturing to say, “You are ashamed of me. I have let you go too far. I have lost my dignity. I—”
“Hiya! No!” He lay his hand on her then, on her stomach, still bare. “It is I who have gone too far. It is I who has lost control. We are not yet married, and I have taken too much liberty with you. But do not fear, you still have your dignity. You have your virginity. I would not take that from you until the day we marry. I will not mar you. I know now why our grandfathers insist a young man not be alone with his sweetheart until after marriage. The temptation is too great. Come.” He sat up then, rising onto his knees. “I will help you dress, and we will return to the village before I lose all control.”
She allowed him to help her, to dress her, to fix her hair again into two neat braids. But she hadn’t forgotten his touch, his power over her, his sexuality. And most of all she hadn’t forgotten her own responses to him.
That had been her last day with him, for when they returned to camp, the Earl was there, back from England and insisting she leave the Indians, leave the one place where she had found peace—had found love.
“No, don’t go,” she cried aloud, twisting her head back and forth, still lost to sleep, still held in firm, strong arms. She felt a gentle touch upon her cheek, the feel of full lips caressing her own. Ah, such a sweet dream.
She settled down, her breathing returning to normal and content now, she smiled.
Estrela awoke to the fresh smell of dewy, morning air. She opened her eyes, looking around her.
Where was she?
She glanced up, but instead of the lodge poles and hide covering she half expected to see, her eyes took in the ornate designs set in pink silk with gold etchings. Her gaze dropping downward, Estrela hoped she might yet see the familiar buckskin articles of the American West, but all she saw were the bedposts from which hung more yards of the pink silk curtains, each lined in gold. The bed curtains were pulled back toward each post so that the bed lay open and exposed to casual view.
Ah, England.
Across the room, she noticed the heavy curtains that hung over the chamber’s tall windows were billowing in and out, indicating that the windows must be open. The French doors stood open and Estrela saw that it was still dark outside, too dark to be overcast; she had awakened to the dark just before dawn.
She contemplated going back to sleep, but dismissed the idea. She had spent too much time in the service of others to lay abed when there was so much for her to think about, so much to do.
And so she groaned. She sighed. She stretched her uninjured arm over her head while she wiggled into a sitting position. She had slept well. At least she had done so after her dream. Her dream—she shut her eyes and brought the memories back to mind, marveling at the intensity of sensation that swept over her body. For a short space in time she’d been held in his strong arms; for an indefinite moment she’d breathed in the clean scent of masculine beauty—Black Bear.
If only it had been real.
It could be.
Estrela shook her head vigorously. It could not be.
She pushed her hair back from her face and breathed deeply. The movement pulled the soft, white nightgown across her breasts, and she glanced down at the gown, trying to remember putting it on.
She had no memory of it.
Odd.
She brushed the covers aside, dropped her feet to the Persian rug that covered the floor, her toes finding and curling around her soft slippers.
That’s when she saw him.
He sat on the floor across from her bed, his buffalo robe spread out beneath him. A sliver of light from the pale moon outside fell over his features, and Estrela noted that he was wide awake…and he stared straight back at her.
He presented quite a picture, camped out as he was beneath an enormous tapestry that hung on the wall.
She didn’t gasp at the sight of him; she didn’t cry out. Shock, perhaps, kept her silent. She did nothing, as was proper Indian etiquette. Excitement raced through her, however, and her heartbeat pounded as though laced with fear. But Est
rela knew the rapid beating of her heart had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with wonder, exhilaration, soul-stirring love and, Lord help her, blatant sexual appeal. Truly, she felt wicked.
She forced her gaze downward. What was she thinking? She was reacting to him as though she had every right to court him.
And she didn’t.
“You slept well?” he asked at last.
Her stomach twisted at the rousing baritone of his voice, at the wanderings of her thoughts. But she merely nodded.
“How do you feel?”
“Well enough,” she answered, her voice soft, high-pitched, and she hoped, reflecting none of her inner turmoil. She glanced up at him. “Have you been here long?”
He nodded. Or at least she thought he did. Against the backdrop of darkness, it was difficult to tell. Silence fell between them until at last he asked, “Your arm? Is it sore?”
“Yes,” she replied, “quite a bit… All night?”
Another nod. “You should not be up yet. With an injury such as this, sleep is more beneficial than any medicine cure, white or Indian.” He paused. “Will you rest again when I leave?”
“Perhaps,” she said. “I should be up and about, seeing to my responsibilities and to you.” She hesitated then, before saying, “I… I…your presence here in my room… I…”
“I am only here to protect you.” He answered her unspoken question, “There is no other reason, except…”
Her gaze flew to his through the darkened room.
“Except,” he continued, “to speak with you privately.”
“Oh.” She knew the sound of her voice conveyed a note of disappointment and Estrela gave herself a silent reprimand. What, after all, had she expected?
She glanced down at the thin nightgown she wore, her only covering, and she wondered if he could see beneath the white lace. True, the murky darkness in the room should have hid her from him, but she knew that he could see as well as the owl in the darkness, knew that if he desired, he could inspect her every feature, survey her every feminine attraction.
The thought was wildly exciting, and she fought with herself to keep her feelings, her thoughts to herself; she could not have him, for her sake, for his. And so she simply asked, “Protect me?” as though she weren’t aware of the potency of his presence in her room.
“Ho, yes,” he said, taking his time before he spoke again. “Does Waste Ho wish me to do more than protect her?”
Estrela sputtered. “I…” She had become accustomed to the English fondness for subtlety. She had forgotten that the Indian did not avoid confrontation.
“I have come to this land to see you, Waste Ho,” Black Bear continued. “I have come in the belief that I would bring you back with me. I am not adverse to showing you how glad I am to see you.”
Estrela swooned. More than anything she wished he would. But she couldn’t tell him that, she couldn’t even let him know how she felt about him. “Black Bear…”
“Ho? Yes?”
“I couldn’t, Black Bear. Things are different between us now. I—”
“Enough!” He sighed. “I understand. You do not need to explain.” He grinned. “But I wonder how things are different between us. Would you respond more to my touch now or would you—”
“Black Bear!”
He leered at her. “What?”
Her gaze shot to his, catching the capricious grin on his lips before she looked away.
“Black Bear, you flirt with me when you shouldn’t.”
He didn’t answer right away. And Estrela strained forward to see if she had missed something, pulling back when she heard him ask, “Are you married that I cannot court you? Do you belong to another that I cannot have you?”
“Me…married?”
“No,” he carried on as though she hadn’t spoken. “You are not. There is no other man here. No one to protect you, to comfort you—to see to your…needs…” He paused for effect. “So,” he continued, “I fail to see why I cannot seek to persuade you into my life, into my sleeping robes.”
Black Bear couldn’t have had more effect on her had he speared her heart with his lance. And Estrela wondered, as her heartbeat picked up speed, if he knew about her, about her secret.
He couldn’t.
And yet…
“Black Bear,” she could barely whisper. “What makes you think I could be married? Why would you ask…?”
He gave her an odd look she could not interpret. And when he said nothing, her stomach plunged.
“I am in your room to protect you.” He changed the subject so quickly, Estrela’s mind reeled. “I believe that you need my protection. But for now I want you to rest. You say you have other duties to attend to; they will have to wait. You need your sleep. Among other things, I am here to see that you rest.”
She had been looking at the woven, patterned rug beneath her feet as he spoke; she raised her gaze to his now. “I appreciate your consideration, Black Bear, yet I must tell you—” She looked away from him. “Does anyone else know you are here?”
“No one,” he said at once, his soft, baritone voice causing spasms of pleasure to run up and down her spine. And unable to help herself, she shivered under the spell of it, glancing back at him.
“Would I leave a trail someone else could follow? Would I have someone else know I have come to you when we are not pledged to one another yet?” A corner of his mouth turned upward. “No, Waste Ho, no one knows I am here. We are quite alone. We could—”
“Black Bear!”
He merely smiled.
And Estrela felt faint.
Was it the dream she’d had earlier? Was it that which was creating such warmth within her, such desire? Or was it simply Black Bear, himself, her love for him?
Whatever it was, Estrela felt suddenly alive with feeling; every nerve, every sense she possessed awakened, cried out to him to touch her, to possess her, to… Estrela pulled her thoughts up short.
She could not have him.
“Does Waste Ho wish me to love her despite her protest?”
Her eyes opened wide. Could he read her thoughts?
“No, Black Bear, I—”
“You confuse me, Waste Ho,” he said. “Your body, your response to me tells me something that your words contradict. And I wonder why.”
Suddenly he rose to his feet with a graceful movement that would have been lost to the staid, English society, he came to her and bending toward her, took her into his arms.
It was a heady sensation—it was naughty, it was sinful, it was—Lord, help her, it was wonderful. And all at once, she was swamped with his overpowering presence, as though the essence of who and what he was merged with and became a part of all that she was.
She shut her eyes, breathing deeply, glorying in the feel of him, in the musky scent of his body, the comfort of his arms and she knew in that moment that she could not let him go.
Yet, she also could not have him.
His fingers grazed her cheek, and Estrela was instantly beyond thinking. She let her body melt into his, knowing that her response begged him to do more than simply hold her.
So it was with no surprise that she felt his fingers threading through her hair, his touch trailing farther down her cheeks, her neck, the soft rise of her shoulders.
At last he whispered, “Holding you like this is sweet torture, Waste Ho, for I feel you will not let me have you. Not completely. And yet when you are like this in my arms, it is all I can do to keep my hands from you.”
He kissed her then, but it was the tender kiss of exploration, not of passion.
And Estrela, unable to draw away, lay pliant in his arms, hoping for more, wishing him to—
He drew back, his gaze touching her everywhere as he said, “What has happened to you in these intervening years? When I hold you like this, I feel the woman I once knew. And I wonder, does Waste Ho wish me to consummate what we now feel for one another? Does she wish to become Black Bear’s bride?”
“Does Waste Ho wish to answer?”
“Black Bear,” she said, her voice just over a whisper. “I can’t. I—”
“Have a family to find,” he finished for her. He stared into her eyes. “Has it never occurred to Waste Ho to ask if I might be willing to stay in England?”
“Would you?”
“No,” he answered, and Estrela breathed a sigh of relief. “But you could have asked.”
She smiled.
“So beautiful,” he said, and Estrela gazed back at him in wonder. “Your smile,” he said. “I believe that this is the first time I have seen you smile since I have arrived and I am happy to see it.”
She laughed, just a little, and Black Bear sat back, kneeling beside her, gazing back at her.
She instantly missed his warmth and pushing herself up, she sat forward, following him. She regarded him in silence then, her glance surveying him, her look at him as potent as a caress.
“I am happy to see you,” she said at last. “I have missed you. I have missed our laughter. I have missed our home.”
“Our home?”
“No, I didn’t mean…home… I mean that…”
“I dreamed of you, of danger to you,” he said. “It is one reason why I am here, why I have taken such trouble to find you. I left our home because I became certain that if I did not come after you, you would die. And, Waste Ho.” He grinned at her. “I did not wish you to perish. Not perish—hiya, no, something else perhaps—not perish—”
“But I thought you came here to take me back with you.”
He sighed. “What would you have me do?” He was serious all at once. “What would you have me say? I have already asked you to become my bride. You have remained silent. Would you have me now tell you that I have never forgotten you? Never forgotten my vow to you? That my life was a mere shadow of existence without you?”
Estrela melted at his words, but the softness of the bed hid her weakness.