Night Wind's Woman

by tiffy

  As they kissed, he carried her deeper into the creek, until she floated weightlessly against him, her feet barely touching bottom. ʺLet us bathequickly,ʺ

  he said, breaking off contact and leaving her so breathlessly bemused she could scarcely tread water. She watched as he moved with the grace of an otter to the bank for a bar of the Frenchmanʹs soap. Remembering the way they had sudsed each other on the journey to the stronghold, she flushed with anticipation. When his hands glided over her shoulders with the silky lather, she shivered and closed her eyes. When he cupped and teased her breasts in circular caresses, she felt her breath stop. He worked lower, raising one slim leg, then the other, and laving them. When one warm, strong hand reached between her legs, she gasped and threw her arms about his neck, holding on to him in a whirling vortex of pleasure.

  ʺYou are quite, quite cleanbut for your hair, Lioness,ʺ he whispered as he lowered her into the water to soak the heavy masses of curls. As he worked suds through her hair, he massaged her scalp, then rinsed the glittering dark gold.

  He watched as she shook her head and opened her eyes to stare at him, dazed with passion. ʺNow,ʺ he whispered, his voice washing over her as smoothly as the soap lather, ʺit is your turn to wash me.ʺ He placed the bar in her hand and closed her nerveless fingers around it.

  Nodding slowly, she remembered to breathe and then began to rub a lather between her palms. Her hands trembled as she massaged the soap across his hard chest with its black, curling hair. She remembered the first timehow touching his flesh so intimately had affected her. This time the feelings grew even stronger. Night Wind was like an exotic aphrodisiac she had read about in that forbidden book she had sneaked from Conalʹs library. What magic hold did this barbarian have upon her? She no longer cared.

  Night Wind forced his breathing to slow as her hands burned a languorous trail from his head down to his waist. She was careful with the soap around the healing knife wound. He flexed his shoulder and chest muscles, showing her that the wound was no longer painful. He could sense her hesitation when she reached his lower body. Gently, he guided her soapy hand to his hardened phallus. After a few tentative strokes, he emitted a sharp gasp of pleasure, clenching his fists at his sides. Orlena felt the thrill of power wash over her.

  ʺWe are clean enough,ʺ he said, scooping her into his arms and splashing through the water to the bank. He knelt and placed her on the thick, soft buffalo robe spread across the ground. When he lay beside her and took her in his arms, Orlena rested her head against his chest. He tipped her face up to his by twining his finger against her scalp and pulling gently on her thick wet hair as he kissed her slowly, drawing her tongue forth to duel delicately with his as the caress deepened.

  Night Wind rolled over her, shifting his weight to his elbows and raining soft, wet nips, licks, and bites down her throat and over her breasts. He felt her arch up against him, eager for more. With a feverish moan, he obliged her, then moved lower and lower, across her belly to the downy fur between her legs.

  Orlenaʹs fingers twisted in his long hair, urging his burning mouth onward until he reached that most private part of her. She stiffened. He silenced her protests by retracing the path back up her body. But his hand dipped lazily between her legs, feeling the creamy evidence of her desire. Again, she moved involuntarily.

  He smiled against the valley between her breasts and murmured low, ʺIt is time, I think, Lioness.ʺ

  Orlena felt him grasp her wrist and guide her hand to stroke him again. She knew somehow what would come next, and her body tensed. He crooned soft Spanish love words in her ear, kissing her and sliding her trembling legs apart with his knee. Slowly, oh, so very slowly, he guided the tip of his shaft against the core of her body, using the heavy moisture of her excitement as a natural lubricant, slicking his way ever deeper inside the tight opening. When he touched the barrier of her maidenhead, he stopped with a trembling, shuddering breath and again kissed her.

  Orlena felt a primitive instinct urging her to arch upward against him, wanting to feet more of the hot, melting ecstacy his body was giving hers, but he stilled her with one hand holding her hips, knowing how she felt. ʺWe have time . . .

  much time,ʺ he whispered into her open mouth.

  Then, after regaining some measure of control, he made one fast, sure thrust, breaking the barrier even as he muffled her cry of surprised pain with his kiss.

  Once deeply embedded, he held his lower body very still and continued kissing her.

  None of the other white women he had lain with had been virgins. The only one he had ever taken was his Lipan wife. Remembering her pain, he tried to still his madly racing desire for Orlena, his frail, delicate lady. He must not cause her any more hurt than necessary. Concentrating on that, he moved a tiny bit, experimentally.

  Orlena was aghast at the sudden change from intense pleasure to sharp burning, but once his shaft impaled her, the pain dissipated quickly. He seemed to stretch her body, filling her with heat and a gnawing, aching need. She felt an instinctive desire to rub against him. When he began to move, she moved, too, finding to her amazement that the spiraling, dizzying ecstasy was returning with each longer, more intense stroke. She held tightly to Night Wind and returned his kiss with desperation, soaring, needing, but not comprehending what, or why it was so.

  Night Windʹs heart nearly burst with pleasure at her response. Her initiation into womanhood would not be the slow, painful ordeal it was for many women. She was a lioness, passionate and strong, in spite of her delicate lineage. He thrust harder and she matched him, stroke for stroke, panting and whimpering, all the want and frustration and fear of the past weeks exploding now, centered on seeking the relief which only that essential male part of him could give.

  He concentrated on his evaporating control, struggling to regain a measure of it lest she take him over the brink and rob herself of completion, something he wanted never to happen for as long as she was his woman.

  My woman! Did he whisper the words aloud? Night Wind did not know, but he could sense the beginnings of her climax. Her amber eyes flew open as she stared through an unfocused haze at his face. He rose high above her, his hips pounding in primal, urgent rhythm now, his face exultant like a dark, beautiful god, savage and splendid as he spilled his seed deeply within her quivering flesh.

  Orlena watched her love through the blinding explosion of her release, feeling at last the freedom from her hunger, the answer to her need. Then, when she sensed he was joining her in surfeit, a renewed thrill swept through her.

  Radiating from where their bodies joined so beautifully, it spread outward in everwidening ripples that left even her fingertips tingling.

  He collapsed on her, panting and sweat soaked. Only then did she remember his injury. Barely two weeks ago, he had lain near death! Had this taxed him so dearly that the fever might again return? Her hands began to caress his back softly and she murmured against his cheek, into his damp, clean hair. ʺYou must lie back and let me warm you lest the fever return.ʺ

  He chuckled low and raggedly. ʺLioness, you already have kindled a fever in me, one I fear only you can assuage.ʺ He rolled off her and drew her against the length of his long, hard body. ʺDo not fear. I am well. She Who Dreamsʹ medicine has worked. So has yours.ʺ

  Orlena puzzled over that for a moment, then reached up to place one small hand on his chest to inspect the wound. It seemed well enough, although she knew he was still weak. ʺOnly rest for a while before we are missed and must return to the village.ʺ

  He smiled. The afternoon was warm and there was time, much timeif he chose to allow it, a troubling voice niggled. Ignoring the future, Night Wind slept, relaxed and at peace for the first time since the abduction of his spitting lioness.

  ʺYou have need of skin lodge before cold come,ʺ She Who Dreams pronounced the next day. ʺWe finish now.ʺ With that she trundled down the hill to where a large buffalo hide was staked tautly across a level stretch of earth.

  Already Orlena h
ad learned how a hide was cured to buttery softness by using a paste of buffalo brains to soak it. Then all the hair and residue was scraped cleanly away with a sharp adz. It was killing labor that took days. The men about camp assisted the women with all the strenuous work of daily life, but the boring drudgery of scraping the heavy hides after they were turned and staked was left to female handsand backs.

  After several hours at the grueling chore, she paused to rub the deep ache in the small of her back. Blessed Virgin, I am using muscles that I never knew I possessed.

  Doggedly, she returned to work.

  As she toiled, Night Wind watched her slight figure from across the creek, where he and several other men were making the hard leather shields that the Apache found so useful against Spanish bullets. White Crane also watched as Orlena struggled with the difficult task.

  ʺShe is too weak for Lipan life,ʺ Night Wind said flatly, almost as if attempting to convince himself.

  Pausing as he stretched a layer of hardened cowhide over the shield, White Crane replied, ʺShe has learned much in the past weeks. Only give her time. She Who Dreams is a fine teacher.ʺ

  ʺBut Orlena is Spanish, from their land across the great waters, a land where she had servants to wait upon her. She could never withstand this life.ʺ The old man grunted. ʺIs it her you fear foror yourself?ʺ At the younger manʹs startled look, White Crane smiled. ʺYour vengeance has been blunted. You no longer think of returning her to Colorado Quinn, do you? Or is it that you do not wish to remember your plan now that you have lain with her?ʺ

  Feeling the heat steal into his face, Night Wind retorted angrily. ʺLying with her was part of my plan. As to the restʺhe made a dismissive gestureʺI must return her whether I would wish it or not!ʺ

  White Crane let his young companion stalk away, understanding Night Windʹs confused feelings. She Who Dreams had already seen a vision. Orlena and Night Windʹs lives were fated to be intertwined. As he had predicted from the first, vengeance was a doubleedged blade that had already turned on the half‐caste.

  White Crane only prayed to the Child of the Water that both troubled young people would find peace, a peace he knew neither had seen before they came together.

  Orlena saw Night Windʹs black, scowling look as he stalked away from White Crane. After their interlude in the water yesterday afternoon, she had returned to camp dazed and shaken as the enormity of what she had donewhat had been done to hersank into her rational mind. Yet that night, as they lay in their blankets, alone in the stillness of the night, he touched her and she turned to him once more.

  What she had instinctively feared ever since that encounter in the adobe hut had come to pass. She loved a man who was not only her social inferior, but a hunted outlaw! And she was as powerless to control her physical passions as she was to control her wayward heart. What kind of life was this for the proud Orlena Valdézto become an Apache squaw! Yet she could never return to Conal and Santiago now, to Santa Fe and the censure of Spanish society. Women who survived captivity among savages were so much human garbage, relegated to cloisters where the good sisters hid them from prying eyes.

  Even if she could, did she want to leave Night Wind? He was still an enigma to her, a man who had abducted her by mistake and for some obscure reason chose to keep her. He only lusts after me, much as Gabriel did. But quite unlike that repulsive noblemanʹs, Night Windʹs touch did not repel her! I love him, but he does not love me. That was the most painful fact of all for her to face. Swallowing her tears, she reapplied herself to her work. She was Night Windʹs captive and had no choice about what he did with her. But come what might, Orlena Valdéz would survive, one day at a time. Brooding on the future gained her nothing.

  Still the tantalizing thoughts trickled into her mind as she worked. What if he did come to love her? He was educated, half‐Spanish. Many such half‐castes lived lives of relative prosperity among the paisanos of New Mexico and other rural provinces. Would Night Wind give up his hatred of whites? If so, he could lead a civilized life, even become one of the ricos, mixedblood ranchers who populated the countryside. How quickly life changed people! Only a few months ago, when she began her journey from Vera Cruz through New Spain, she would have been appalled beyond reason at what now seemed an unattainable dream!

  As Orlena brought their evening meal into the wickiup from She Who Dreamsʹ

  cookfire, Night Wind watched her natural grace. She set out the sotol bread and roasted venison. Her soft doeskin skirts and flexible moccasins allowed her great freedom of movement as she knelt on the hard‐packed earthen floor.

  ʺSoon it will be too cold to sleep in this summer shelter. How does our lodge progress?ʺ Night Wind took the green willow that skewered a large, juicy chunk of meat and pulled off a generous bite with sharp white teeth.

  ʺIt is almost finished. All the hides are prepared and ready to be sewn together.

  Tomorrow, She Who Dreams will show me how to select lodge poles from strong young saplings,ʺ Orlena replied, eyeing him uneasily. Why was he so grim tonight?

  ʺThat is difficult work for women. Green saplings are difficult to cut. I will go with you. Such soft hands will soon be ruined doing camp chores,ʺ he said, reaching out to clasp her wrist and examine her reddened skin and broken nails.

  ʺI am scarcely going to be invited to the Viceroyʹs ball this fall, so the condition of my hands does not signify,ʺ she replied, snatching her hand away from him.

  ʺAh yes, balls and teas, lace fans and silk stockings, velvet‐lined carriages and soft linen bed sheets. You have given up much, Lioness.ʺ

  Her eyes widened at his knowledge of such things. ʺSurely the Franciscans had no velvet upholstery or linen sheets. There is not a carriage in all of New Mexico,ʺ she scoffed. ʺWhere have you learned of such things?ʺ

  His face became shuttered. ʺNo, the good brothers in Chihuahua City live a simple life, much as New Mexican paisanos, but farther south there are great Spanish cities, are there not?ʺ

  ʺAnd you have seen them?ʺ she asked incredulously.

  The racial and social superiority her surprise implied raised his hackles. ʺI have ʹvisitedʹ the City of Mexico more than once, Doña Orlena. Dressed in civilized clothes, I have gained entry to all manner of places.ʹʹ And women, he added in silent arrogance, as a sop to his ego.

  Somehow she could picture him in courtierʹs garb, with his hair clubbed back.

  His arrestingly chiseled features and striking green eyes might allow him to move among the powerful, especially considering the education he possessed.

  Among the ill‐educated colonials, he would stand out as a paragon of erudition!

  ʺWhat do you do, spy on them and then rob them?ʺ she asked acidly.

  ʺSomething of that,ʺ he replied with a grim smile.

  ʺThis war on the Spanish will only end with your death. Why do you not end it now? With a pardon from the governor, you could begin againʺ

  ʺA pardon you would beg from your beloved Conal?ʺ he asked with fury etched tautly on his face. ʺDo not bargain overmuch on your ability to sway him where I am concerned. He will not heed you.ʺ

  ʺWhy? Because you have dishonored me?ʺ she shot back, stung at his refusal to consider her pretty, implausible dreams.

  He barked a harsh, mirthless laugh and set down the skewer of venison. ʺYes, I have dishonored a Spanish noblewoman, the illustrious governorʹs stepdaughter! I recall well the wrath of Colorado Quinn, which you have reminded me of since the day I abducted you. But look you, how well he controls this land your Spanish king claims. The governor will never find us in our stronghold.ʺ

  Orlena quivered with fury. ʺYou blame Conal for everything that ever befell you!

  He was only a soldier, fighting his enemies, just as you and Hoarse Bark fight the whites! You do not know him as Iʺ

  ʺNo! For a surety I do not know him as you do,ʺ he growled low. ʺBut mark me well, I know him for what he is! Only pray you never do!ʺ With that he stood up and stalked out of the w
ickiup.

  She bit her lip to stem the flow of tearsweak, foolish tears, for an insufferable barbarian who did not deserve them! Dispiritedly she cleaned up the remains of their meal and then rolled up in their bedding furs. In spite of her resolve, she cried herself to sleep.

  Night Wind left that night with Hoarse Bark and a handful of young Lipan warriors. Although no one would tell her, she knew he had gone to raid the Spanish settlements.

  Each day Orlena found her eyes scanning the horizon for his big piebald stallion.

  Each night she lay alone, astonishingly bereft to be without the comforting warmth of his body next to hers. Sleep came only after long hours of fitful tossing. Although she would not admit it, she ached for his return.

  ʺLodge is warm, strong. Snow, wind will not enter. Good,ʺ She Who Dreams pronounced their work. Although he had left in anger before cutting the lodge poles for her, Night Wind had asked White Crane to assist with the task. Now the buffalo‐hide tepee was finished.

  She Who Dreams was right, Orlena thought with pride. The skins were tightly sewn and stretched securely over the tall poles, creating a warm, dry haven from the bitter nip of frost in the autumn air. Nothing she had ever done in her life before had given her this sense of accomplishment. If only Night Wind returns to sleep in it with me.

  She Who Dreams helped her young charge move her simple camp utensils and bedding into the lodge. Little Doe and several other young women brought fragrant, newly cut cedar boughs to soften the sleeping pallet. Upon these she piled thick pelts, which served as the warmest blankets. The women were polite and shy, communicating with her by means of a broken mixture of her Lipan and their Spanish, mostly by simply improvised sign language. They were friendly and curious about Night Windʹs strange, yellow‐haired slave, but Sweet Rain remained openly hostile. She was cousin to Quick Slayer and followed Lipan mourning customs by cutting her hair and wearing old clothes. His immediate family mourned him, but Quick Slayer was a troublemaker in the band, disliked by most. Two elderly men had taken his body away for burial at a distant site, so his angry spirit would not return to wreak havoc in the encampment they had recently chosen for a winter shelter.