Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Other Books By
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgment
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Copyright
RECAPTURED PASSION
Gray Eagle took Alisha’s face in his hands and kissed her gently. “Allow Shalee to send Alisha away,” he coaxed. “You speak and think as white, my love, but you are now Indian. I have been patient as you asked; I have not forced you to become my wife again. But I love and desire you. And touching is the sharing of love.”
“What about my feelings?” Alisha defended herself.
“You have no desire for me?” he demanded a little too harshly, fearing her answer.
“I am trying to—”
He severed her sentence. “Trying! Love is not a chore to be done, Shalee. Love comes to a heart and body, or it does not,” he stated in a tone that made her even more nervous. “Do you feel such things for me?” he demanded.
Trapped, she murmured, “I don’t know.”
“Then we shall find the answer,” he threatened huskily. Then he pulled her into his arms—and took her mouth with his own.…
JANELLE TAYLOR
ZEBRA’S BEST-SELLING AUTHOR
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Brazen Ecstasy
Janelle Taylor
FOR:
PESHA FINKELSTEIN,
my talented editor and good friend who emends my verbal silver into brazen gold….
&
ADELE LEONE,
my indispensable agent and great friend, whose exceptional skills prevented “growing pains”….
ACKNOWLEDGMENT TO:
Hiram C. Owen of Sisseton, South Dakota for all his help and understanding with the Sioux language and facts about the great and inspiring Sioux Nation.
My endless gratitude and friendship.
BRAZEN ECSTASY
Love tho’ forbidden, still rapture’s delight.
Hatred burning brightly in prejudiced night.
Boldness alights, permitting all to see;
The fierce battle raging for BRAZEN ECSTASY….
Chapter One
Black Hills, South Dakota, March, 1782—A gust of icy wind impatiently yanked at the neat braids and doeskin dress of the Indian princess who had pulled aside the buffalo-hide flap to catch a breath of fresh but biting air. Her pert nose and creamy cheeks were instantly chilled by the glacial dampness that heavily laced the fierce breezes swooping down from the nearby mountains like some ravenous bird of prey carrying out his daring attack upon a helpless victim. Even after years in this Plains climate, each winter her tawny flesh stubbornly returned to its natural ivory cast as if subtly reminding the Oglala and other tribes that she was half white.
Yet she was accepted and respected as the half-breed daughter of the powerful Blackfoot chief Mahpiya Sapa and as the wife of the legendary Sioux warrior and future Oglala chief, Gray Eagle. She had long since stopped wishing for her satiny skin to remain a golden caramel shade, for her forest-green eyes loudly proclaimed her white blood to anyone who gazed into them. Thankfully, after five years in her husband’s camp, she was considered an Indian by many tribes. If only their rival and enemy tribes would also ignore her white blood. Hadn’t she proven herself Indian in heart and essence? Perhaps one day all tribes would view her a worthy mate for the formidable and invincible man whose life and heart she shared.
All in all, these past five years had been peaceful. She had long ago stopped thinking of herself as Alisha Williams, the English girl who had entered the domain of the valiant warrior Gray Eagle and challenged all he knew and felt to win his heart. Days of denial and pain had ceased many winters ago; only love and acceptance dwelled within their hearts and tepee. A passionate and powerful love had conquered all differences between them. For the remainder of her days, she would live and love as Princess Shalee.
Shalee’s green eyes studied the leaden sky that hovered ominously above the winter camp at the base of the Paha Sapa, the sacred Black Hills, which offered protection from the harsh winters in the Dakota Territory and sufficient grasses to feed the animals during the lengthy period of waiting until the open plains were once more covered with lush bunch and buffalo grasses. When Mother Nature renewed her face with the coming spring, her people would return to their summer camp near the prairie where the buffalo herds would graze, generously supplying them with the main source of their livelihood.
Yet another snowstorm was threatening to whiten the face of Makakin at least one more time before it finally yielded to the verdant beauty of spring. Shalee’s gaze shifted toward the lofty black mounds to the west, still sleeping beneath a heavy sheet of white. But for the persistent evergreens, the trees were naked, shuddering with cold as if silently pleading with Makakin to place a warm garment of green over them. Without a doubt, the River Spirits had won her ear; although slightly cluttered with hunks of ice and an edging of it, its middle ran freely and swiftly, aided by the melting snows from the majestic Black Hills. But soon it would be warm and inviting outside. Inevitably life would forcefully renew itself.
Shalee lowered the flap and secured it against the frigid fingers that wanted to sneak inside to warm themselves at the price of chilling the tent’s inhabitants. She quietly walked over and knelt beside the child sleeping upon the thick buffalo hides, hides captured by the skill and daring of her husband, hides tanned by her own deft hands. Pride and pleasure flooded her singing heart. She had learned so much since coming west in 1775. She possessed a husband whose virility was envied by all women, whose cunning and coups were envied by all men. Her softened gaze roamed the face of their child. How fortunate could one woman be? How could a heart contain so much happiness and pride without bursting from fullness? She knew. She had defiantly and brazenly challenged all odds to win this once forbidden ecstasy. She would allow no person or force to endanger it.
Without awakening Bright Arrow, Shalee lovingly stroked his shiny hair, which was as sleek and black as the raven’s wing. Even amidst the winter demands, his firm body was a rich coppery shade that she almost envied. His closed lids prevented Shalee from gazing into eyes as dark as precious jet, eyes that frequently sparkled with boyish mischief or glowed with pride at his lineage: a proud heritage of dauntless chiefs, a heritage which he did not fully
understand at his tender age of four winters.
The Fates had certainly been kind to Shalee, to Alisha Williams. They had artistically interwoven the threads of her life to present her as a worthy mate, although white, to the indomitable warrior who had stolen her heart at their first meeting, even though they had been avowed enemies. Some day soon, her beloved would follow Chief Running Wolf as leader of the awesome Oglala; some distant moon in their wonderful future, their son would also become a Sioux chief. Such realities thrilled and awed Shalee. So few women were granted these great honors and joys: wife to a chief and mother to a future chief. It made her feel like royalty, like an English queen who had borne the future king of her land and people. Often, such thoughts were even frightening. Each moon, she would pray that no one would ever declare her son unfit to become chief because of the white blood given to him by his mother; such a disgrace and rejection would surely break his heart and hers. His father, her cherished lover, would die in battle over such a loss of face. So far, no one had challenged Bright Arrow’s right to future chiefdom. But would things change when that eventual day arrived? Surely not, for Bright Arrow would match the legend of his father.
Yes, she happily concluded, the Fates were on her side; no trace of the white man’s heritage flawed her son’s visage. Judging by his present appearance, he would become his father’s image. His father’s image….
Shalee’s mind mentally traveled the short distance to the Ceremonial Lodge where the O-zu-ye Wicasta, the famed warrior society, was in deep conference over their imminent plans to return to the open plains as soon as the last snows melted. She was eager to feel the warm sunlight caressing her face and body as she diligently worked beside their tepee. She could close her eyes and envision the seemingly endless grasslands waving in the breeze. She longed to smell the freshness of the reborn lands and forests, to sniff the fragrance of the wildflowers, which grew in abundance, to gather heady herbs to use in her cooking, to stroll leisurely along the riverbank, and to make passionate love among the wondrous offerings of nature. Despite the hardships of living in the wilderness, they led such a peaceful and exciting existence. A frown creased her lovely brow as unbidden worries flickered across her mind.
She couldn’t forget the troubling words of the visiting party of Cheyenne braves three moons past. After nearly two years of peace following the fierce battle and necessary destruction of Fort Pierre, more and more white settlers and soldiers continuously flooded the Indian lands in every direction. As before, with her own group of settlers, new animosities were raging. Only the harsh winter had briefly halted this new uprising of danger and death. Why was peace so impossible? Why must people, Indian and white, be so greedy and evil? A human life was so precious, too short to spend in bloody warfare. How she wished she could experience life as it had been here before the whites invaded this unspoiled land of the mighty Sioux and his brothers.
She had witnessed and learned enough to know that the white man would never cease his advance; nor would the Indian yield what had been his for countless years. Fear and torment knifed her heart as she defensively pushed such agonizing thoughts from her mind. The Cheyenne had always been friendly to the Sioux, as was the Blackfoot tribe. The braves had warned of the close proximity and already budding hostilities of Fort Henry, to the north of the Black Hills, as well as of the persistent building of Fort Meade near the mighty Missouri River, near the summer camp of the Oglala. God, how she prayed history would not repeat itself….
Shalee did not fear for her life and safety, nor for that of her son. How could she be afraid when her husband was alleged the greatest warrior ever to ride the Plains or to battle their aggressive white foes? The Sioux were powerful and brave; she didn’t fear her own fate. But a warrior’s life was open to death’s greedy invitation every day, each time he left camp to intentionally or unsuspectingly confront this deadly foe who demanded both his lands and life. For a long time, she had relaxed in her tranquil surroundings; now, the threat of the white man was rapidly growing like some fatal disease that determined to consume all in its path.
Being white, she could not always agree with the ominous, lethal actions taken by the Indians toward the white pioneers, for many were good people. Many whites had come here in good faith, looking for new beginnings and to revive their hopes and dreams. Many had been led to believe the Indians would indifferently accept their presence and the confiscation of parts of their lands. Many had no other place to go. Many had been driven from other lands or from the now independent America. Poverty, religion, political disagreements, and such had sent many whites hurrying to this so-called promised land. Time hadn’t changed the reasons behind the heavy influx; the victory over England for independence had. Once the English Crown had been conquered, the Americans almost instantly turned their wide gazes to their West, its conquest challenging them now.
Somehow the victory over her fellow Englishmen didn’t trouble Shalee; the threat of victory over her present and chosen people did. “Please, God, don’t let them recall I am white,” she fervently prayed against that disastrous possibility. “Just permit me a few more years and even my color won’t matter to them.” But would that day truly come? she fearfully wondered.
Shalee went to her own sleeping mat to lie down, as was the custom of the Indian during this time of day whether it was winter or summer. She closed her eyes and forced her taut body to relax. His skills honed to perfection, Gray Eagle entered so quietly that Shalee did not note his presence for a few moments as he remained motionless to study her. As he silently knelt beside the mat to prevent disturbing her, his manly scent assailed her senses. Her eyes opened and fused with his obsidian ones. He smiled down at her, his smoldering gaze engulfing her exquisite features and holding her eyes captive as he had once done with her very life.
A radiant smile filled her eyes and teased at her soft lips, inviting him to join her upon the mats before their son awakened. The power and passion of his love had never ceased to enflame her body and to stir her heart. No matter how many times they made love, it was always unique and overpowering. They never grew weary of touching or possessing each other; it was as if they couldn’t have enough of each other. Such had been the pattern of their great love since the beginning many moons ago.
He stretched out his lithe frame beside her sleek one. Propping himself upon his left elbow, Gray Eagle continued his slow scrutiny of his woman. At twenty-five winters, Shalee was more beautiful than any living creature he had set eyes upon during his thirty winters upon the face of Makakin. Her presence and possession enlivened him more than the breath of the Great Spirit that filled his lungs or the food supplied by Wakantanka. She was like the air, the water, the forces of life; she was vital to his happiness and completeness. How had he survived without her? How could he survive if he ever lost her?
He chuckled softly, bringing an inquisitive look to her alluring eyes of leaf green. No power or man existed who could defeat him or steal his love from his side. If necessary, he would challenge the Bird of Death himself before yielding her over to his hands! He had seen her and taken her; she was his for all time. Forever their bloods were joined to exist within their children and their children’s children after them. The line of Gray Eagle would continue as long as Wakantanka existed: forever. But there was only one son to carry on this line; he needed others, for a warrior’s life dangled before the Bird of Death each new sun. He needed more than one powerful son to ride at his side to defeat the white man who threatened all he loved and owned. If Shalee hadn’t borne another son after losing their first child during a tragic accident, he might believe she could not accept his seed. But Bright Arrow had grown within her body. He was healthy and untouched by evil spirits. Surely that meant they could have another child someday.
He grinned at his wife; there was but one way for his seeds to enter her body and to lodge there. He lovingly caressed her cheek, skin as soft as the hide of a newly born fawn. Her eyes burned with the same flames that f
illed his taut body. He sat up, then gently pulled her to a sitting position. His eyes glowed with merriment as he unlaced the ties upon her heyake and lifted it over her head. He deftly unknotted the strands that held her cehnake in place. He tossed it upon the discarded dress, then quickly divested himself of his own garments and breechcloth.
Shalee eased back to rest upon the plush skins as her husband pulled another buffalo hide over them to guard their privacy and to prevent a chill. No matter how long Shalee lived with him, she would probably always retain her natural air of modesty. Gray Eagle glanced over at their sleeping son and whispered into her ear, “Our son sleeps, Little One. No spark from the fire will touch his mat or from his keen mind to halt our joining,” he teased, nibbling upon her ear between words and chuckles.
Shalee smothered a giggle at his playful remark. “Had I not been so naive, my love, you would have been denied the joys of teaching me so many things,” she seductively jested in return, her teeth painlessly seizing his chin as her laughing eyes met his beguiling ones.
“What things did I teach you, Grass Eyes?” he questioned in feigned innocence.
“To love you more than life itself,” she began, her tone husky with deep emotion. Her hand traced the proud lines of his handsome coppery face as she murmured, “To know every part of you better than I know my own body… to live only for you and our son… to boldly touch you wherever I wish….” At that provocative statement, she allowed her hand to trail over his powerful shoulders, down his strong arms, and across his chest. Such vitality and strength were evinced beneath her exploratory hand. He looked as if some talented artist had melted rich cinnamon, blended it with a clear liquid, then poured it into a sensual mold to produce a frame of hard and sleek perfection.
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