Sundancer's Woman

by Judith E. French

  She could not resist touching a silver fork. How long had it been since she’d seen a proper table setting? Her lips curved upward in a smile. Her mother would think this cabin fit only for the lowest of her servants; even Ruth, the cook, lived better.

  For a few seconds, Elizabeth allowed herself to think of her mother’s dining room, set, as it often was, for thirty guests. Samuel, the butler, would stand near the hall door, directing a steady flow of maids in starched white caps and spotless aprons and footmen in red vests and breeches. The floor-to-ceiling windows facing the street would be open to catch the breeze off the water, and fan boys in feathered turbans would stand on either side of the heavily laden table pulling the cords connected to the curtain of sea grass matting overhead.

  She could almost hear the clink of wineglasses, the murmur of voices ... almost smell the delicious odors of fresh-baked biscuits hot from Ruth’s kitchen: spicy shrimp, she-crab soup, and roast leg of lamb with mint. If she closed her eyes, she knew she’d be able to see her father at the head of the table, rising to offer a toast. And if she looked directly across from her chair, she would meet her brother Avery’s mischievous grin. Avery, who—

  “Elizabeth? Aren’t you going to warm yourself—”

  “Yes,” she answered, startled from the hot autumn afternoon in Charles Town to the reality of this isolated cabin locked in the grip of another snowstorm. “Yes, I will.” The English came easier to her lips now; she took pleasure in pronouncing the words correctly and hearing her own voice say them aloud. Yellow Drum had forbidden her to speak English. She had defied him by whispering to her children, but she had begun to forget her native tongue. A few more years in captivity and—

  “Are you frozen solid, woman?” Hunt asked as he awkwardly pulled his hunting shirt over his head. “Get out of those wet moccasins and—”

  “Oh,” she cried. “I’m sorry, I forgot. You’re hurt.” She shrugged off her heavy outer garments and went to him. “Let me see your arm.”

  “One bite is deep. The others aren’t worth mentioning.”

  “Let me bind it to stop the bleeding,” she offered. She glanced around the cabin, looking for a bit of cloth to use as a bandage.

  “Not yet. The more it bleeds, the less likely the wound will sicken.”

  She shook her head. “Not for someone who lost so much blood back in the cave. I’ll wash it thoroughly and ...” She noticed a spiderweb in the corner, high up on the logs. “My mother’s cook, Ruth, always said that spiderwebs will stop bleeding.”

  Hunt grimaced. “My father, Wolf Robe, used spiderwebs for bleeding too, but not for a puncture wound.” He knelt on the edge of the hearth and picked up a burning stick.

  Elizabeth blanched. “What are you doing?”

  He blew out the flame, gritted his teeth, and pressed the glowing end of the branch into the deepest tooth mark. Elizabeth’s stomach turned over as she heard the sizzle of human flesh. Hunt’s face turned the color of tallow, and sweat beaded on his forehead.

  She turned with a cry, ran to the door, and flung it open. Scooping up a handful of snow, she slammed the door and ran back to Hunt. He was still kneeling upright, but his eyes were glazed and he swayed a little. When he saw her coming with the snow, he nodded and held out his arm. Elizabeth clamped the snow over the burn and held it tight.

  Hunt rose unsteadily and walked the few steps to a chair. Still sweating profusely, he pointed to a jug on a sideboard. “Get me that, will you,” he asked hoarsely.

  She brought the container and poured amber liquid into a pewter goblet. Hunt lifted the cup and drank the rum in one long swallow. “Thanks,” he gasped. “I’m not normally a man for spirits, but some things deserve a toast.”

  “You’re crazy,” she said, but she knew he was right. A puncture wound could bring lockjaw or turn gangrenous. Better a little agony now than to die horribly later. She poured a second goblet of rum. “Drink it,” she advised. “It will help the pain.”

  “You’re still in those wet moccasins,” he said.

  Sitting on the rug in front of the fire, she unlaced her high leather moccasins and slipped them off. For a few minutes, she allowed herself the luxury of toasting her bare feet, then she stood and lifted a large copper kettle from the iron crane. “I’ll heat some water and start supper,” she said.

  Hunt tapped the crockery jug. “Will you have a glass? It will warm your insides.”

  She shook her head. “No, Father says I’m too young for—” She laughed. “I guess I’m not too young anymore, am I?” Shyly, she took the goblet he offered her. The rum burned her throat as it went down, but she forced herself to finish it all. “Thank you.”

  Hunt pushed the cork back into the opening of the jug. “All things in moderation, my father always said. I believe it to be wise judgment. Indians and Irishmen have a poor tolerance to alcohol.”

  “As do properly-brought-up girls from Charles Town,” she replied. The rum had warmed her belly, but it made her a little giddy as well. She wasn’t sure she liked the feeling. “I’ll melt snow for—”

  “Baptiste has a cistern, there.” He pointed to the back of the room. “Beneath that wooden seat. The Jesuits are learned men. They devised all sorts of labor-saving inventions. I’m certain the water is full of spiders, but it should do for bathing and cooking.”

  “You expect me to cook with water full of bugs?” She made a face. “I’ll start with snow, as I said before. That, at least, is clean and free of vermin.” She relented a little. “But it takes a lot of snow to make water. I don’t suppose it would hurt to heat the cistern water for bathing. A hot bath sounds like heaven.”

  He offered a wan smile. “It does, doesn’t it. But grill a little venison first. My belly feels as empty as a dried gourd.”

  She nodded. “Mine too.” The cat rubbed against her bare ankle and purred hopefully. “And I doubt if puss would turn down a hot meal either,” Elizabeth said. “Where do you suppose the priest is?”

  “He and his woman may have gone to trade for salt and tea. Baptiste has a passion for good English tea. Or they might be visiting some of her relatives.”

  “With Baptiste?”

  Hunt shrugged. “Why not? He’s safe enough. I told you, no Indian will harm a madman. They believe they’d lose their immortal soul if they did.”

  “Wherever they went, I’m grateful for the use of their cabin. I hope they don’t mind.”

  “They’re good people. They won’t care. If they were here, they’d be honored to have us as guests.”

  “So long as we don’t bring the wrath of the Iroquois down on them.”

  “Our scalps are the ones in danger. Baptiste’s wife is under his protection. They have nothing to fear but the weather, sickness, and old age.”

  She looked around her at the stout log walls, the simple furnishings, and the stone fireplace. “Once I would have thought this a hovel; now it looks like a mansion to me.”

  “Your father is one of the wealthy few; he spends more on a suit of clothing than most settlers own in a year. My sister’s cabin was poor compared to this. She said we were born in a manor in Ireland, but I couldn’t say for sure. Maybe we were hard-pressed to make a living. Lots of the Irish are starving; that’s why so many cross the sea.”

  “All this talk has done nothing to keep us from starving. You sit, or better yet, lie down. I’ll prepare the meal.”

  Hunt uncorked the bottle and poured himself another two fingers of rum. He took a sip, then held his aching arm out over the stone hearth and slowly poured the remainder of the liquor in his goblet over the burn. It smarted like hell, but that was all right. At least he had an arm to hurt. It worried him that he’d not seen the wolf until the last possible moment. If he’d been killed, Elizabeth would have died as well. And she had suddenly become very, very important to him ... maybe more important than he wanted to admit to himself. He let her wash his wounds and the single gash along his neck. The rum had gone to his head, and her hands were
as gentle as her eyes. He wasn’t drunk, but he’d had enough to dull the pain and set him to thinking along dangerous lines where Elizabeth was concerned.

  He spoke little as she prepared the venison and a hot mush of cornmeal. Watching Elizabeth was restful. She worked swiftly with a natural grace, and she didn’t chatter aimlessly. When she brought the food to the table, he surprised her by lifting the lid of the crockery jar and dipping thick maple syrup and ladling it over her mush.

  “It’s wonderful,” she said, putting a finger in the sweet and licking it off. “Raven and I made maple syrup every spring, but she wouldn’t let me eat it.”

  He smiled at her. “My Delaware Indian mother dribbled hot syrup in the snow to make candy. I never waited for it to cool and usually burned my mouth gobbling it down.”

  “The Iroquois women do the same. Rachel ... Jamie,” she corrected herself, “loved it. At home, Mother’s cook used to make marzipan and taffy at Christmas, but I’m certain it never tasted this good.” She chuckled. “I know the sugared rose petals didn’t.” She took another bite of the sweetened mush, then closed her eyes and sighed. “I’m warm and dry, and the wolves didn’t get us. I think I’m in heaven.”

  “You’re easily pleased, Elizabeth. More than most.”

  Her brilliant eyes fixed him with a penetrating green stare. “Perhaps,” she answered softly. “Perhaps not.”

  The playful mood shattered, they finished their meal in near silence. Elizabeth cleared away the dishes, washed and dried them, and returned them to their places on the table. Then she looked into his face again. “I’d like to bathe in private,” she said.

  “Do you expect me to stand out in the snow?”

  She laughed. “I do not, sir. The poster bed has draperies. If you’d lie down and pull them closed, then—”

  He’d been waiting for her to bathe ... to take down her hair and wash it. He always found something sensual about a woman washing her hair. “Why the sudden modesty?” he asked huskily. “It’s not as though we haven’t been sharing a camp.” Or that I haven’t touched you, he thought. And kissed your breasts ...

  Damn, but the room was growing overwarm. He’d been looking forward to a hot bath himself, but not nearly as much as he’d wanted to watch her bathe.

  “I know it sounds foolish,” she murmured, “but I haven’t had privacy in a long time.”

  Her voice was as deep and rich as the golden aged rum. He swallowed, trying to dissolve the sudden constriction in his throat. What had they agreed on? He’d keep his hands off her if she’d keep hers off him? It seemed a stupid contract, one that hurt more than it helped.

  Her eyes were as green as new mountain grass . . . as green and clear as Rocky Mountain jade, and they were framed by thick, dark lashes that fluttered like the wings of a dove. He’d always been a man to fancy a woman’s eyes. Many a plain face held eyes full of fire or the promise of shared laughter and freely given love. Elizabeth’s eyes drew him. When he stared into them, he felt every ounce of common sense draining away.

  “You should lie down,” she said. She touched his cheek, and tremors of yearning splintered through him. He nodded, not trusting his voice. He crossed to the bed and stretched out on it without removing his breeches. She drew the thin draperies closed around him and he lay in semidarkness, smelling the woman scent of her and wishing things were different between them.

  He closed his eyes and listened as she dipped out the water into a tin basin and stepped out of her clothing. He heard her faint sigh as she sluiced the warm liquid over her bare skin. He heard the thud and crackle of wood as she stoked the fire, and when he could stand it no longer, he opened his eyes and looked through the worn bed curtain at her silhouette backlit by the roaring hearth.

  His mouth was dry as his fingers tightened on the Hudson’s Bay blanket. “Sweet Lord,” he murmured. Elizabeth ... Beth was on her knees, hair unbound and hanging over the basin as she poured water over her tresses. The bright glow of firelight behind her left nothing to his imagination. Her small breasts were high and firm; her nipples formed perfect buds. Her waist was narrow above a flat belly and curving feminine hips. Her bare feet were tucked behind her, her arms lifted over her head.

  He pushed back the drapery. “Can I help?” he called. “Scrub your back?”

  Startled, she looked at him. For an instant he didn’t know if she would turn angry or begin to cry. Instead, she remained motionless, gazing at him. Then, she smiled and extended a hand. “I’d like that ... very much,” she answered, and her husky voice made him feel as if he’d just stepped off a precipice into thin air.

  Their fingers brushed as he took the dipper from her hand, and a massive jolt of electricity shot through his body.

  “Have you had much practice?” she asked him.

  He let the water run slowly down her wet back. “Not enough.” God, but she was beautiful.

  She pushed a soapy cloth into his hand. “The center,” she urged. “I can’t reach the center.”

  He knelt beside her on the stones and began to rub slow, sensual circles along her spine. She sighed with pleasure, and he lowered his head and kissed the silken nape of her neck. It was damp and smelled like wildflowers.

  “Lower.”

  He swallowed. He dipped the washrag in the basin, then squeezed it over the small of her back. The water ran down and collected in pools between her feet.

  “Umm,” she murmured.

  He dropped the cloth and used his thumbs to massage her shoulders and the back of her neck. She turned to him and he lifted the dripping hair away from her face. “You’re all wet,” he said.

  Her lips trembled and she looked at him with huge green eyes. “Yes, I am.” She paused for a heartbeat. “And your breeches are getting wet as well.”

  “I’ll have to do something about that.”

  “I suppose so,” she answered.

  “Close your eyes, Beth.”

  She obeyed him without question, and he shed his breeches so quickly that he snapped a leather tie. “Keep them shut,” he reminded her.

  She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Hurry, or I’ll catch cold,” she warned.

  “I’ll not let you be cold.” The lid of the white crockery jar clattered to the table as he spooned out maple syrup and dribbled it onto a plate. Then he dipped his forefinger and anointed various parts of his own body.

  “Hunt?”

  He chuckled. “Keep your eyes closed.” He carried the plate to the hearth, dipped his finger again and let two drops of syrup fall onto her left nipple.

  She gasped. “What are you doing?”

  “Dessert,” he answered. “You’ll like it, I promise.”

  Chapter 11

  Elizabeth trembled as the drops of cold sticky substance dripped onto her nipples. “What is it?” she asked. Her voice sounded strained, as breathless as though she’d run a long way. Hunt moved closer, so close that the heat from his body burned hotter than the flames at her back.

  “Don’t move,” he teased lazily.

  She kept her eyes shut—waiting. Another drop landed on her right breast and rolled slowly down into the hollow of her bosom. “What are you doing?” She was tempted to peek, but she didn’t. “That’s not water. What is it? Syrup? Is it maple syrup?” She couldn’t keep from laughing.

  “Shhh,” he admonished. “I don’t want to waste any.”

  She giggled as he spilled more between her breasts. Rivulets ran down to pool in her navel, then overflowed and ran lower.

  “Hold still. This would be easier if you were lying down.”

  “Hunt, you’re crazy.” She was still shivering, but not from fear or cold but from anticipation. It was impossible to be afraid of a man who poured maple syrup over you.

  “Trust me,” he said.

  Tentatively, she reached out. Her fingertips brushed his naked skin and closed around his erect phallus.

  He groaned. “Woman, what are you—”

  She felt him
shudder under her touch. Shamelessly, she explored the substantial length of his tumescent manhood, caressing the sensitive tip with feather-light strokes, rubbing the engorged flesh until she felt his hot blood surge with primitive lust. “Oh,” she cried. Her delight surfaced in a brazen outcry of wonder. “You want me.”

  The dipper tumbled from his hand onto the hearth-stones, splattering syrup over her bare feet. His powerful arms enfolded her, and he clutched her so hard against his sinewy chest that she could barely breathe.

  “Beth,” he commanded. “Look at me.”

  She opened her eyes. For the barest instant, a frisson of fear stabbed through her as she met the scalding force of raw lust in his gaze.

  “If we do this, it has to be because you want it,” he said, “not as payment for my stealing your child. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want you, but I won’t be bought.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  With a groan, he crushed his mouth against hers in a scorching kiss that caused the earth to sway under her feet. With that kiss, her terror vanished as though it had never existed, leaving in its wake a gathering storm of fevered desire unlike anything she’d ever known.

  Her hands clenched his broad shoulders; her lips opened to receive his thrusting tongue. Her heart pounded wildly as he ground his loins against her. Instinctively, she strained to meet him, savoring the feel of his hard, throbbing manhood against her naked body.

  Tears clouded her eyes as she parted her lips to welcome his ever-deepening kisses. I’ll remember this night forever, she thought. Forever. Sweet sensations spilled through her body like fiery ribbons of sunshine. Her knees were so weak she wasn’t sure they would hold her up. The fire crackled behind her; the stones were warm under her feet, but the conflagration within her burned with a brilliance that no earthly fire could match.