She licked her lips again, nervous, and was shocked when the tip of her tongue touched his mouth. She gasped in surprise. His mouth came down on hers, warm and moist, soft yet commanding. Small Bird responded with a sigh. She’d never known this type of intimacy, but some inner voice guided her.
Wrapping her arms around Swift Foot’s neck, she pressed herself closer. When his lips moved over hers, she imitated his actions. As the shaman had merged their blood and lives, Small Bird allowed Swift Foot to merge his mouth with hers.
Lost in the heavenly feel and taste of her first kiss, Small Bird settled into her husband’s arms, tipping her head back. A throaty groan escaped her. Swift Foot broke off the kiss, allowing her time to recover.
Her eyes darted to his, fell into bottomless pools of emotion. She lifted her face—inviting, begging, needing more from him. Much, much more.
With a groan he lowered one arm, allowing her to slide down the front of him. The hard length of his body, the soft feel of his skin, even the wetness of their clothing added to the moist heat simmering between them.
Without releasing her, Swift Foot again bent his head down for a kiss. Small Bird’s lips parted on an anticipatory sigh. Once more his mouth covered hers.
Their passion started out slow and tender, as before. Small Bird took her time tasting him, stroking him, exploring him as he did her. But when he paused to kiss the corner of her mouth, she moaned. His tongue slid along her lower lip, making her grip his shoulders tightly to keep from falling. Deep down inside her, a strange feeling was brewing. She felt weak yet exhilarated.
Suddenly, with the swiftness of a thunder burst, Swift Foot took the kiss to a new level. Passion erupted in a wave of heat that left Small Bird shaking. On her husband’s part, all the careful control he’d ever shown fled. His hands, hard on her shoulders, slid up to cup her face, then they slipped down over her waist. He pulled her flush against him. His mouth pressed tighter against hers.
Feeling the hard length of Swift Foot’s manhood press against her belly, Small Bird gave herself up to her husband’s loving. Everything would be all right now. The past, the present, the future—all had come together as she’d known it would.
At her feet, the fire continued to crackle and pop as the lashing rain found its way inside. Swift Foot’s hands traveled back up, skimming the outer swells of her breasts, and Small Bird leaned into her husband’s hands. Knowing what would come, she felt grateful that the tipi’s inner lining, aside from keeping out drafts, also prevented their shadows from being visible to the rest of the camp.
Swift Foot felt the storm within him burst. Need raced through him. He forgot the past, the future. Now was all that mattered. Small Bird’s warm skin, her hot breath, her sweet taste drew him to her.
The primitive abandon with which she gave herself to him—her eager yet sweet tremors whenever she touched her tongue to his—drove him to claim her. Swift Foot felt only that wild desire racing through him. Small Bird tasted like the storm—and he’d never tasted its fury before. He’d never felt his control slip so easily, so recklessly as it did now.
Scooping his wife up into his arms, he carried her to their bed and lowered her to the soft furs. Her arms refused to release him. Sliding close, he held her face in his hands. His mouth touched hers briefly, then trailed down her body.
Using lips and tongue, he skimmed a path along her jaw, nipping gently at her feather-soft earlobe, then retracing his path, veering off to explore her smooth, soft throat. Feeling the wild beating of her pulse, he dipped his tongue into the delicate hollow there, then scraped his teeth back up her neck until she pulled his mouth to hers. Her hands tangled in his hair. She became the aggressor.
Beneath the sweet, hesitant licks, the bold thrusts of her tongue and the playfulness she displayed by teasing his mouth into following hers, Swift Foot felt himself spiraling into oblivion. Her passion blotted out everything. He had no past, no future. No guilt, no responsibility. Only this. There was only Small Bird and the storm she unleashed within him.
He slid one hand down the soft wet deerskin of her dress, over the ridges of quills, and ran his fingers through the long, silky strands of its fringe. Past her belted waist and lower he went, until he encountered bare skin. Hooking his fingers beneath, he drew her knee up, baring more flesh to his seeking palm, which stroked the softness there. It slid up the inside of her thigh with slow, measured movements. Small Bird’s breath came faster and faster until she turned her head, overwhelmed by the assault to her senses.
Burying his face in the nape of her neck, Swift Foot tasted her, his tongue flicking over her collarbone, teasing the flesh beneath her tunic. When his fingers reached the apex of her thighs, he drew in a deep, ragged breath. She threw her head back and moved restlessly beneath him, pushing her soft womanhood into his palm.
Swift Foot groaned.
So long. It seemed so long since he’d let himself go. Since he’d given himself over to his primitive side completely and without maintaining a thin layer of control.
Always in control. Always thinking. Always planning. Even with Emily.
Emily.
The name burned through his brain and shattered his haze of desire with the same intensity that lightning ripped across the sky. He rolled off Small Bird, shocked at his loss of control.
Even during his mating with Emily, he’d never been able to completely lose himself or forget who he was. The past retained its presence in all he did. Until now. For once he’d forgotten who he was, what he was and what his duties were. He’d forgotten everything. He’d lost himself so completely in Small Bird’s arms that it shook him to his core. He felt as though he’d been slammed into the ground and left there to die.
“What am I doing?” he whispered, sitting. His manhood was swollen. It throbbed, ached for release. Minutes ago he might have given in to that need. Now he could not.
Guilt churned deep in his heart. In its shadowy corners, he imagined condemning blue eyes filled with shimmering tears. Once again he heard Emily’s desperate pleas for him to return to her. She’d loved him. He’d loved her. He’d fallen asleep to the memories of warm summer nights beneath the moon and stars as he made gentle love to her. Peace and quiet had followed those sessions and left him relaxed for the first time in his life.
With Emily, there had been none of this wild torrent of emotion. He had loved the white girl. With horror, Swift Foot realized he’d used the term in the past tense. He swiped a hand over his jaw. That wasn’t right.
He loved Emily still.
I love Emily, he repeated over and over in his mind.
Then how could you have lost yourself so completely with Small Bird? Swift Foot felt confused and angry over the extent of the passion he had just shared with his wife. He ran his hands through his hair and stared into the fire. “What am I doing?” he asked again harshly.
Whatever reaction Small Bird had expected to the wild and wonderful lovemaking between herself and Swift Foot, it wasn’t the deep shadows of pain darkening his eyes. Waves of anger radiated from him. His voice held harsh fury. The sweep of cold air blowing in from the tent flap brushed over the heated thigh he’d just touched.
Sitting quickly, she stared at her husband. Grabbing a fur, she pulled it around her shoulders. “What is wrong? What did I do?” She reached out and softly touched his shoulder. He’d seemed to want her. He’d enjoyed their kisses, she knew he had. He couldn’t deny the evidence of his desire.
He jumped to his feet as if she’d burned him. He stared down at her, his eyes hard as arrow tips. “This should not have happened.”
Getting to her knees, Small Bird clutched the buffalo robe to herself, more for comfort than warmth. She didn’t understand. “Why?” she asked. “We are man and wife. It is right we share the marriage bed.”
Swift Foot turned to go.
Panicking, Small Bird dropped the fur, jumped to her feet and ran after him. “Don’t leave. Tell me what I did wrong?”
“You did nothing wrong.” The words were torn from him.
He looked at her with such pain, Small Bird fell back. “Then why did we stop?”
Before Swift Foot could answer, a loud cry sounded outside. It echoed as if it came from far away. The call repeated then, as if from one person to another. Or one guard to another!
Small Bird sucked in her breath. The shrillness of the calls signaled trouble.
Swift Foot rushed past her, discarding his shirt and leggings. As if she weren’t there, he whipped off his breechclout, unashamed of his nakedness or the undeniable evidence of his desire for her.
Working fast, he redressed. When he was finished, his fine wedding garments lay in a heap at his feet. Then he grabbed his weapons, brushed past her and dove through the door. Small Bird followed, scanning the distance and looking for trouble. Rain poured from the sky. Warriors ran from their tipis with weapons in hand and mounted their warhorses. Several warriors rode into camp, shouting out warnings that a group of riders were heading toward them—fast.
The enemy had found them. And this wouldn’t be a wedding party.
In minutes all the warriors were assembled. Swift Foot faced them on his own black warhorse.
“Break camp. Take the women and children to safety,” he ordered one group.
“You know where to go. The rest come with me to meet the enemy.”
As he whirled around to ride off, he stopped to stare at Small Bird. “Go. You will be safe.”
Small Bird, like the rest of the women, rushed into action. She didn’t doubt the need to hurry. The attack of Swift Foot’s enemy so many years ago, the one she’d lived through, spurred her to work faster. In one minute, the perfectly taut and straining tipis were waving and flapping with each gust of wind. Another minute had more than fifty tipis flat on the ground. As soon as the women began taking poles down, the boys and older men who had run to fetch horses returned. Belongings were made ready for travel. Families who owned dogs called the animals. Horses and dogs were loaded.
As Small Bird secured her belongings, she glanced up. A bolt of lightning ripped the heavens apart and illuminated the drops of falling rain. She was soaked, her new wedding garments splattered with mud.
Considering the omens with which her marriage had started, despite the brief moment when all seemed well, this ending to what should have been the happiest day of her life seemed fitting.
Two warriors rode over and urged her onto her horse. She mounted and set off. A young boy had been put in charge of the steed carrying her belongings. With a warrior on either side, as befitting her status as the chief’s wife, she rode in the opposite direction from her husband.
Earlier, she’d told her father she was ready to meet her future. With a quick glance behind her, she sent a prayer to Wakan Tanka to watch over her husband and give her a chance to lead the violent past to a peaceful future.
Chapter Seven
Swift Foot rode away from camp. At the first warning cry, his mind had reverted to its training. Emotions and problems were set aside, and nothing mattered but his people. At that moment he was nothing but a warrior—a chief and a leader of his tribe. Protecting that tribe overrode everything else.
He’d planned long for this moment. Confident that his orders for the evacuation of the village would be followed, Swift Foot began thinking of the forthcoming confrontation with the enemy.
Leaning low over his warhorse’s neck, he let his mind work furiously. Who approached? Were these the warriors of Hawk Eyes? Or were these riders from the Mandan tribe?
He discounted the latter idea. Over the years, raids and skirmishes with neighboring tribes had occurred, but they were mostly meant to prove stealth and skill as each side sought to steal horses or other goods. Those raids were also carried out with small bands to keep from being detected, not with large war parties.
Deep in his gut Swift Foot knew his enemy had finally come after him, and it caused him a pang of disappointment. He’d hoped there could be peace. Hawk Eyes had sent Many Horns to speak to Charging Bull three times now. Though his uncle had feared that the offer of peace talks was a trick, he could not discount the opportunity to end the feud. Now, if it was indeed the warriors of the Miniconjou riding toward them at night, it was clear that their chief had other intentions than ending the fighting.
Above Swift Foot, the rumble of thunder continued. Rain lashed down through the darkness, making it hard to see. The air carried with it an acrid smell, burning. The very atmosphere hummed with violence.
Swift Foot allowed himself a moment to think of his people. His wife. Though he hadn’t wanted one, she was now his. And the enemy, if they knew of her, would seek her out. But he’d anticipated this day. His tribe would head south. There, after many days of travel, they would see the land undergo a dramatic change: it would become dusty and inhospitable, with deep canyons, little water, little vegetation and the earth filled with jagged rocks and peaks that would make good places to hide.
Ever since his uncle had led them to this place—to hide the son of Runs with Wind—Swift Foot had explored each canyon, ravine and gully. He knew each bend in the winding river, and each of the smaller creeks leading away from it. He knew the land his people referred to as the badlands. There were many places to hide. Food and pouches of water had even been hidden in many places in case of an emergency.
At the base of the hilly mounds, Swift Foot’s warriors split into two groups. The young chief himself went around to the left. Beyond the rocks’ gently sloping base, he saw the approaching tide of shadowy riders, in the far distance, he heard their war cries mingling with the howl of the wind. His warriors had been spotted.
He firmed his lips and prepared to meet the enemy. Angling his horse slightly to the right, he moved to rejoin his split war party. Those warriors who had been on lookout atop the high peaks joined them as well. Swift Foot’s men came together, then rode out onto the plain.
Close enough to see his foe’s number, Swift Foot held up his lance and came to a halt. Warriors surrounded him. Soon each man shifted until they all formed a long, intimidating line stretching out on either side. Overhead, the rain pelted the earth, soaking the horses and the warriors. Flashes of light jittered from cloud to cloud.
Swift Foot kept his gaze trained on the enemy riding out of the night. Behind him, another row of Hunkpapa warriors formed, then a third row, each line stretching out into the darkness. Their numbers were many now. Since the attack so long ago that had killed his wife, Charging Bull had set about preparing for this day. Each year, at the summer gatherings, he had sought out the best warriors from other tribes and enticed them into marrying into his own. Under his wise leadership, the Hunkpapa tribe had prospered. But judging from the large number of Miniconjou, that tribe had also grown.
Beneath Swift Foot, Kastaka shifted. “Easy, boy,” he murmured. “Soon we will ride to meet our enemy.”
Kills Many Crows’s voice rang out behind him. “And how many more will die this day, cousin?” the man asked in a loud voice.
Beside Swift Foot, Night Thunder shifted. On his other side, Charging Bull angrily turned.
No one spoke, though. The question had been directed at Swift Foot, who chose to ignore his cousin’s bitter question, even if his mind could not. How many will die because of me? Over and over the question circled like two snarling wolves.
“Amayupta yo.” Answer me. Kills Many Crows’s voice was taunting.
Night Thunder’s horse shifted. Swift Foot felt his friend’s fury. With a small movement of his hand, he warned Night Thunder not to act on that anger.
“Hecetu sni yelo,” Night Thunder said in a snarl, his voice low and harsh.
“No, it is not right,” Swift Foot agreed. He knew his cousin was questioning the tribe’s leadership, something that would never have happened while Charging Bull was chief. But now was not the time to deal with Kills Many Crows’s resentment. He glanced over at Night Thunder. “Clear your mind, my friend. Anger dire
cted at anyone besides our enemy will only distract you and get you killed.”
“You are right. It is only out of respect for you and your uncle that I do not challenge and humiliate your cousin by revealing his cowardly nature,” Night Thunder explained.
Swift Foot nodded. “That day will come, my friend. But the matter will be settled by me.” Lifting his lance high, he attempted to clear his own mind and heart. He could not afford distractions—yet for the first time since becoming a full warrior, he couldn’t focus.
In one day, so much had changed. He had a wife now. This war was no longer just between him and his enemy. He kept seeing that day so long ago, the murder of his aunt, when his father’s foes had been willing to risk so much to get to her, as well as to the son of Runs with Wind. Families were weaknesses. Waiting for the right moment to signal his warriors to attack, Swift Foot could not throw off the heavy cloak of worry that threatened to smother him. He’d always known he’d pay for his father’s actions, and now he had his own sins to atone for. Though he’d done his duty by marrying the woman chosen for him, Swift Foot was no better than his father. He’d fallen in love with a white woman, and had nothing to give the woman he now called wife except the danger of being his bride.
Hawk Eyes cursed the summer storms that had taken him and his men by surprise. Their suddenness and intensity had blinded and slowed his war party, and ruined his plan. He’d intended to arrive during the wedding ceremony, when the Hunkpapa were off guard.
Many Horns had done well; alone, he’d been able to remain close and spy on the enemy. And when he’d returned with the news of the wedding, Hawk Eyes had ridden hard to attack. But the weather had changed, slowing him. He should turn, abort this battle and return another day—but the enemy had already been alerted. And all peace talks had been ruined.
Across the wide, flat sweep of dirty brown grass that had become mud, he spotted the strange mounds of which Many Horns had spoken. He also saw movement: a gathering of mounted figures.
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