The Warrior's Captive Bride

by Jenna Kernan

  His grip tightened on the bow, but his conviction faltered.

  “The spell you had here in the forest. You think I caused that?”

  “And the ones that have followed.”

  “Why would I do that?” she asked.

  “Witches need no reason to curse a man.”

  “Of course they do.”

  “You knew that I would take you with me, so you stopped me.” Doubts filled him. Was this just another trick?

  She scowled as if his words angered her. “You say I did this thing. Now, I will tell you what I did do. When you fell, I went to you and put you on your side so you would not choke on your blood. I put your bag under your head, to protect you from striking the ground.’

  He stared, not knowing what to believe. Although the tension in the flexed bow urged him to release his arrow, he pointed it at the ground.

  “Did you find your horse tied to a tree?”

  He had.

  Astonishment filled him. All she said was so. He had awakened on the ground beside his dog with his bag under his head like a pillow. The buffalo skin he used as a saddle blanket covered his body and his horse had waited patiently for him, saddle hanging over a branch by his side.

  She lifted her chin as if he had answered her.

  He released the tension of his bow, easing it back to rest but keeping the arrow notched.

  “If I meant you harm, why did your dog not attack me then or now? I have not cursed you. I have saved you.”

  “You are not a witch?”

  “I am a medicine woman and the daughter of a heyoka. I heal with bark, roots and growing things. I help people as I helped you. I do not curse them.”

  His skin turned to gooseflesh again. He slung his bow over his shoulder and returned the arrow to the quiver on his back. If he needed a weapon, his ax and his knife were close at hand and he could throw both with deadly accuracy. Neither, however, could defend against magic.

  “Have you asked your medicine man to help you?” asked Skylark.

  He had not. Because to do so was to admit to all that he was no longer a man.

  “I do not need medicine. I need only find the one who has cursed me.”

  “You could come with me to my home and consult with our medicine man. Spirit Bear is very powerful.”

  He would not be seeing her shaman, either. Word would travel from her village to his at the winter gathering, and he would lose his place as a warrior of the Black Lodges. That was his deepest fear. He must keep this secret and find a cure.

  His gaze fixed on this medicine woman.

  Could she help him?

  She paused and glanced in the direction of her village. Then she bit her bottom lip. The act sent a growling need through him that took him by surprise. When she cast her gaze back to him, his skin felt hot and prickly. He recognized that now she wove a different kind of spell. He knew it instantly, though he had not felt it with any other woman. But he had experienced it once before, the first time he had spoken to her, alone, in the forest digging roots. It was elk madness, the love sickness which was the cause of much foolishness by many great men. This was why a man, a serious man, with many coups and a reputation of profound honor, could follow after a pretty woman, playing his flute for her at night and pursuing her like an elk in rut. This power was just as strong as bewitchment and he did not want it. Not with this woman.

  She stooped over to pet his dog, her elegant fingers gliding over Frost’s short coat. He could see the outline of her full breasts and the curve of her flank. She was perfect in his eyes, which brought him back to his original worry. What if she was Double-Faced Woman?

  “How do I know you are not a spirit?” he asked her.

  She glanced up from his dog and laughed. “What?”

  But her smile dropped away and her hand left the dog’s head as she looked at him. Did his expression reveal the real seriousness of his question? Skylark drew out her skinning knife from the elaborately quilled sheath she wore about her neck. She lifted the knife and her left hand, and nicked the round flesh at the base of her thumb. Immediately she bled.

  She extended her hand to show him.

  His shoulders sagged with relief. Spirits did not bleed. He rested a hand on the bone grip of his iron knife.

  She glanced at her bleeding hand and returned her knife to the sheath. Then she searched in her bag and retrieved only a sprig of leaves, which she crushed, rolled into a ball and pressed to her wound. Making a fist, she held the poultice in place.

  He reached out and captured one of her wrists. With a little tug he brought her tight against him, her soft curves contacting his chest. The sensation was like diving into cold water. His body felt charged and alive. She did not struggle. In an instant he had her hands gathered in one of his own and pinned behind her back.

  “Can you remove the curse?”

  She lifted her chin. “What kind of curse? Were you cursed by an enemy in battle? Or are you haunted by a ghost? Or perhaps you have had unclean relations with someone? All these could bring you to this place.”

  He did not know. “I have not had unclean relations. But I have killed enemies. Many.”

  He wanted to leave her here. But more than that he wanted to press their hips together, fall upon the green grass and taste the sweetness of her body. His heart galloped as the musky scent of her rose all about him in a different kind of spell.

  This attraction that he had felt for her on first sight was even stronger now. He stared at her beautiful flushed face and the full, parted lips where her breath came in erratic little pants. Was that her reaction to him or the fear? And then she shifted, moving their hips closer and pressing herself to him. He should have known. This one did not show fear. But her desire was clear. He did not trust her. Those things they said about her, that she was odd and dangerous and could heal or kill, he now thought they might be true.

  Night Storm thrust her away. The poultice had fallen off, but already the bleeding had stopped.

  “How do you know about ghosts and taboos?”

  “I am learning about such things. I have learned all I can from the wisest women in our tribe. I wish there were someone who knew more than I do, so I could...find cures for the incurables.”

  Was he an incurable? He longed to ask but feared she would hear the desperation in his voice.

  “Did you really do those things? Tie my horse? Cover me?”

  “Who else?”

  It was an excellent question. He had been alone. His first ride since his head injury. He had seen her. Remembered her. Wanted her.

  “If you are a healer...” How did one ask a favor of a woman he had just threatened to kill?

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know what causes me to fall?”

  She considered him. He felt small and vulnerable and he hated it. This was why none must know of his weakness.

  “There are many things that will still tremors and quiet the winds that blow through the mind. But I know some medicines and charms that can send away trembling and shaking and even falling. Does your mind disappear?”

  That was what it felt like exactly. “Yes.”

  The knowledge she had might save him, keep him whole, give him back his life or end it.

  What would she do if he asked? Laugh? Give him medicine that was actually poison? Or, worse, reveal his secret?

  They stared in silence for a moment and then he performed the bravest act of his life, braver than riding into battle against his enemies or placing his lance in the hump of a charging buffalo. He asked for her help.

  * * *

  Skylark’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Her warrior had asked for her help. Hers.

  She took a step closer and then paused, glancing in the direction she had come. Would her father be
all right without her?

  He had his sister. Her auntie fed him and clothed him and let him sleep by her fire during the cold moons. She just did not have the time to follow him about, talking him down from trees and coaxing him to eat.

  Night Storm took her hand and she looked into his dark eyes. A yearning pulsed within her and she did not resist as he drew her closer. He was a full head taller than her and his shoulders were broad.

  “I need a healer. One who can help me and one who will keep my secret.”

  Her eyes fixed on her warrior.

  He swallowed and she looked at his face. Handsome, hopeful. There was a crease between his dark brows and his full mouth pursed as he stood for her scrutiny.

  He looked like many warriors, but somehow he was different because of how she felt when she looked at him. And there was something else, an important difference between this man and all other men. He knew she was the daughter of heyoka and a medicine woman and still he wanted her, not for herself but for what she might do.

  Night Storm did not see her as dangerous. Or if he did, he was willing to take the risk.

  He looked at her with hope. She did not need any man. Her healing talents could more than provide for her. She did not need this man. But somehow she did.

  He wanted her because she knew his secret and would not tell.

  He thought she could help him.

  But what if she could not? After all, she had failed to save her mother.

  “I have responsibilities in my tribe,” she said.

  His mouth went grim and his grip on her hand tightened. “Have you taken a husband?”

  She blinked in surprise. To have him think she was married, that she would be desired by a man enough for him to overlook her flaws, made her throat close and ache. She shook her head.

  “I still live with my aunt and uncle.”

  “They can do without you.”

  It was true and that hurt her. The only one who needed her was Falling Otter. “We are moving.”

  “I can return you to them, wherever they go.”

  The look he gave her was full of hope and longing. She tingled with awareness at the way he stared at her. Was that the need of a man for a woman or of a desperate man for a cure? She didn’t know, but, oh, how she wanted to be the object of that desire again. Everything about him called to her except that he had a falling sickness. She hedged.

  He laid aside his bow and then removed the beautiful strand of white beads from about his neck. He held them before her in both hands, presenting them for her inspection and then draping them over her head. They settled warm upon her skin. Gently he pulled her braids from beneath the necklace. The way he slipped his hand down her braided hair made her stomach quiver and her skin tingle.

  “One so beautiful needs no such adornments, but I would give you this. It has value.”

  She pressed a hand over the beads and felt her heart pounding in her chest. “I know of roots and plants that are known to stop hand trembling, shaking and some that quiet the mind. I know several that ease dizziness,” Skylark said. “But I will not promise I can stop this falling sickness.”

  “But you will try?”

  “I cannot change those who are possessed. I cannot lift a curse or chase away evil ghosts.”

  “Am I cursed?” he asked, and rubbed his thumb on the back of her hand.

  The motion was just the simple brush of skin on skin, but the sensation that rippled through her made her gasp.

  “I do not know. But this thing that has happened to you, it is sudden. So perhaps it is an ailment of the body.”

  He took her other hand, forming a sacred circle between them, and somehow this felt holy.

  She stood before him, thinking she was not up to the task. She had confidence in her plants, roots, barks and minerals. But she had never tried to cure a man who fell. She had seen his sort of sickness. It was a fearsome thing.

  He waited, his eyes glittering with hope as he set his mouth tight to receive bad news.

  “I will try.”

  * * *

  Winter Moon heard her brother’s arrival before she saw him because he was clapping his hands to the beat of an imaginary horse. His arrival was well-timed, as many of the people had already begun their journey. She had tied the household belongings on one travois and two packhorses. She smiled her welcome.

  In search of Skylark, Winter Moon glanced the way her brother had come but did not find her. Her smile faded.

  “I must see to my horse,” said Falling Otter.

  “Where is Skylark?”

  “She is coming right along.”

  Winter Moon frowned. Her brother’s words meant Skylark was not coming.

  “Is she hurt?”

  “Yes. Very badly.” He held both hands over his heart.

  She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Can she come?”

  “She cannot.”

  Winter Moon flapped her arms. “Can you not just tell me?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed and began again. “Is she alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she with someone from this tribe?”

  “Yes.”

  A flash of fear danced through her. “Oh, Great Spirit. She’s been taken by the Sioux.” She called to Wood Duck. “Husband, come quick. I think something has happened to Skylark.”

  Her husband was much more patient with the questions than she ever was. She relayed what she knew.

  Wood Duck took over and interrogated Falling Otter and then turned to his wife. “She is with a man, not of our clan but of our tribe. It may be that she has finally found a suitor.”

  “Did he take her?” asked Winter Moon, now gripping her brother’s arm.

  “Yes,” said Falling Otter.

  Winter Moon sagged in relief.

  “So she has gone,” said Wood Duck. “It is good.”

  “How is this good?” asked Winter Moon.

  “She has chosen a man, and we will see her at the gathering. Perhaps she will even be a married woman.”

  Chapter Three

  Skylark attempted to lower Night Storm’s expectations. “I do not know exactly which medicine will work. So we will try them one by one.”

  “How long will that take?”

  She grimaced. “It might take several moons.”

  “You will stay with me that long?”

  “No. Two nights. Then I must return.”

  “Two. It is impossible,” he said.

  “You could come with me to my village. Then we would have more time.”

  He shook his head. “I am a chosen hunter for my tribe. If I do not return, two widows with children will have no meat.”

  This was the way in her tribe, as well. Young single men were designated to provide for the families of those who had died in battle, from disease or on hunts. She knew it was a great honor and marked him as a man of promise with a bright future.

  And it gave him another good reason to hide his weakness.

  “The longest I have ever been away from camp is two nights,” she said.

  “That will not be enough.”

  They faced each other. She felt pulled in two directions at once.

  “Let us see what we can do in the two days. Then we will decide what to do next.”

  He stared for a long moment and then nodded his consent to this.

  “Why does your aunt let you leave the village alone and stay away for days?”

  “So I can gather plants for medicines.”

  “That is dangerous. You should not be alone. What if I had been a Lakota warrior instead of one of your own people?”

  “Then I would be taken. I know the risks. Still I woul
d not give up my freedom because of fear. It is like sunlight to a flower. I need this time to keep...”

  He waited and when she did not speak he repeated her last word. “Keep?”

  “Keep from going mad.” Just like her father. She could see herself as a heyoka. Going out when others went in. Tanning roots instead of hides. Making medicines instead of food. Gathering Osha Root instead of the life-sustaining Bitterroot and Timpsula tubers.

  “Other women live in camp and leave only in groups for safety. You could venture out with them.”

  “And you could learn to paint tepees or make weapons instead of hunting buffalo.”

  “That would kill me.”

  “Then you understand my need to wander. Even if it comes at a cost. It is who I am.”

  He met her gaze and then nodded. “I understand.”

  Night Storm’s dog sat beside Skylark, leaning heavily against her leg.

  “Ah. You two have not been formally introduced. This is Frost.”

  She stared down at the now-familiar dog. “We have met but I am glad to know his name.”

  The dog’s head reached her hip. He was lean and lanky. The tips of his ears stood up like a wolf’s and his tail was full and bushy as any fox. The rest of his coat was short and uniformly gray except for his white muzzle and the spots upon his chest that spread outward and did look very much like his hairs were frosted. His eyes were clear, alert and the color of a lead bullet.

  Night Storm squatted and scratched the dog, who sat down, tail now thumping the ground.

  “He has been with me since...” His hand traveled down the dog’s spine and Skylark found her own spine arching at the sensual sight of his big, broad hand stroking over Frost’s body.

  It was her physical reaction that caused her to fail to notice immediately that he had stopped speaking in midsentence. She saw that he was now staring up at the treetops with unfocused eyes. Frost noticed his master’s distraction, as well, and poked Night Storm’s bare leg between his loincloth and the tops of his leggings with his cold wet nose. This brought Night Storm back to attention.

  Night Storm petted his dog and Frost’s tongue lolled as his eyes half closed.

  “What was I saying?”