Sundancer's Woman

by Judith E. French

  “Do you mind?” Logically, she knew she must have walked with him from the dance ground, but she could remember nothing except the man-scent that was Hunt’s alone, the sound of his voice, and the texture of his skin pressed against hers.

  “I was afraid you’d choose another.” He kissed her again, and the sweet sensation washed away old hurts and wove a ribbon of light between them. His strong hands moved over her, touching... stroking . . . fanning the heat of her yearning.

  She parted her lips, welcoming the deepening of his intimate caress, losing her fears in the warmth of his velvet tongue. One kiss followed another, piling on top of each other until there were no individual kisses, only a long, shared glory of pleasure. And each kiss led her deeper and deeper into a dream world of sensual longing.

  “I want to see you . . . all of you,” he murmured. And she felt no shame as he tugged her gown off over her head and she stood naked before him.

  “Now you, Sundancer,” she dared. A sob rose in her throat as she beheld his beauty, the corded sinews of his bronzed forearms, his tight, flat belly, the hard muscles of his thighs. She offered a trembling hand, and he covered it with his. “I want to feel your heart beating,” she whispered.

  He moaned as she traced the curves of his broad chest with her palm and let her fingertips linger over the ritual scars that knotted his flesh. “Elizabeth.” He drew out her name so softly that it might have been a breath of spring wind.

  Compassion for the anguish he must have felt when he’d received those wounds rippled through her, and she leaned close and kissed the scarred flesh. A tremor shook him and his arms tightened like steel bonds around her. She pressed her cheek against his chest and felt the tickle of a scattering of dark, curling hair.

  The deep, steady throb of his heart was reassuring. So strong, she thought. His strength sprang from the earth like an oak tree. With a sigh, she turned her head and traced the outline of his aureoles with the tip of her tongue. His nipples hardened and she felt a surge of desire. Wantonly, she drew a nubbin between her lips and sucked gently.

  He groaned. “I have other scars,” he murmured.

  “Show me where.”

  He lifted an arm to let her lave the ragged mark below his elbow. “And here,” he said, pointing to a place on his left side that showed the discoloration of a long-healed burn.

  “Poor thing,” she teased. His skin tasted clean and slightly salty.

  “There’s a bad one, here.” He placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down so that she could kiss the blemish on his thigh.

  “And ...” he began.

  “I don’t see anything wrong with this.”

  “Look closer,” he urged.

  “Oh, yes.” She joined in his deception. “I do see something that needs kissing.” Mischievously, she stroked the length of his shaft with her fingertips. “This is a terrible wound,” she murmured. “See how swollen the flesh is.”

  “Terrible,” he agreed.

  Chuckling, she administered light, teasing kisses to his throbbing organ. He gasped with pleasure, clutching at her shoulders as she followed the caresses with a more intimate exploration that left him gasping for breath.

  “Enough of your torture,” he cried, breaking free and sweeping her up in his arms. “The Cheyenne have a way of dealing with troublesome wives.”

  She laughed up at him until he silenced her with his mouth and dropped her onto the heaped furs of his sleeping platform.

  “Before I’m finished with you, I’ll have you begging for mercy,” he promised her.

  “I won’t be tied up,” she warned him. “Anything but that.” She had no interest in games that reminded her of captivity, but she knew instinctively that she was safe with Hunt. He’d never do anything to hurt her.

  “Close your eyes,” he said.

  Obediently, she obeyed him.

  “You cannot open them,” he ordered. “If you open them, you prove yourself a weak and foolish woman.”

  “They are sealed shut,” she assured him. She felt his body shift and waited expectantly. To her pleasant surprise, the first thing she felt was the pressure of his lips on hers.

  His kiss was tender and thorough, hardly torture, she thought. “The Cheyenne have a different view of torture than the Seneca,” she whispered.

  “I’m getting to that part.”

  She giggled as something soft brushed her eyelids. “What’s that?” she demanded, reaching up to touch the feather in his hands.

  “You’re cheating,” he accused. “You must lie still and not talk.”

  “Who made up these rules?”

  “Submit or admit you are the loser,” he said.

  She lay back and sighed impatiently. The warmth of the fire and the soft sensual texture of the furs beneath her were soothing, but she didn’t want to sleep. She wanted his love. She wanted him to—“Oh,” she murmured.

  The feather stroked her bare nipple and she gasped, feeling her flesh tighten into an erect bud. “No talking,” he warned, before placing his warm, damp lips over her sensitive skin.

  “That feels good,” she whispered.

  He repeated the process, first the feather caresses, then his lips and tongue. She shivered as a wonderful ripple of pleasure brought her fully alert. “Shh,” he said. The feather grazed the hollow of her throat.

  She waited breathlessly for his touch. Inch by inch, he began to tease her body, bringing forth responses that she’d not known were possible. By the time his tongue brushed the swell of her belly, a light sheen of moisture had broken out on her skin, and she could no longer lie still.

  “Hunter,” she whispered.

  “Shh, we’re getting to the good part.”

  She moaned and tossed her head restlessly. “Hunter.” She felt dampness in the cleft between her legs. And the wigwam was no longer comfortable; it had become hot . . . too hot to bear.

  The feather tickled the curling triangle of hair above her apex of her thighs, and she clutched at his shoulders. She arched her back, raising her hips to meet him. His warm breath teased her most intimate spot, and she cried out as she felt the heat of his tongue.

  “No more,” she begged, opening her eyes. “Please. I want—”

  He raised his head and looked into her face, his dark eyes heavy-lidded with passion. “But I haven’t gotten to the bear claw necklace yet,” he murmured.

  “Hunter.”

  With a laugh, he moved his knee to kneel astride her. He lowered his head and lingered over her upthrust breast, then met her eager mouth with his. For an instant, she looked deep into his eyes and read the love within. Then physical need made Elizabeth shameless; she wrapped her arms and legs around him and pulled him down to cover her with his strong, naked body.

  He slid into her, and she sucked in a quick, sharp breath. “Ohh,” she cried. He filled her with his shaft, then withdrew and plunged into her depths again. She clung to him and called his name, blending her need with his. With each thrust, her desire grew stronger. Together they fused a glory of wordless song and ageless music. And when the radiance burst within her in a thousand fiery cascades of light, she continued to move with him until she felt his spasms of culmination.

  Afterward, he held her to his breast and kissed her face and hair and fingertips. Then, wrapped in a blanket of softest otter-skin, they whispered love words late into the night.

  Twice more before the dawning, his phallus stiffened with desire and he made love to her again. Each time was new and different; each time was a memory that she could cherish.

  “You are like no woman I’ve ever met,” he whispered to her.

  “You always say that,” she teased. She sat with her legs curled under her while he brushed her hair.

  “It’s true,” he insisted, lifting a lock and rubbing the length across his lips.

  “You said I was trouble.”

  “And you are,” he agreed.

  She lifted a gourd of water to her lips and drank. “We’v
e not slept,” she reminded him. “Soon it will be light, and the children will be hungry.”

  “Someone will feed them.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “I do.”

  “What kind of mother would I be if—”

  “Your children will be fine. To the Shawnee, a child is the Creator’s greatest blessing. They will be loved and spoiled and stuffed with the best food Grandmother Swift Runner can prepare.”

  “Are you certain?”

  He smiled at her. “I’m certain. After the Pigeon Dance, the tribe rises late. I thought to take you with me to the sweat lodge. After we’ve taken the steam, we could roll in the snow.”

  She tilted her head and glanced up at him. “You’re mad, utterly mad. Do you know that?”

  He chuckled. “You can’t judge until you’ve tried it.”

  “I’ve not tried the bear claws yet, and I’m sure—”

  “You’ve not?” He growled and dropped to the floor beside her. “I forgot to teach you—”

  “No more!” She threw up her hands in mock surrender. “I’ll not be able to walk if we—”

  His eyes widened. “I’ve not hurt you?”

  It was her turn to laugh. “No, you’ve not hurt me.”

  “Then, why not—”

  “Hunter!” A male voice called from outside the door flap. “Hunter, you must rise and come.”

  He leaped to his feet and reached for his rifle, hanging over the entranceway. “What is it, Talon? Are we under attack?”

  “Not yet,” the chief replied tersely.

  Elizabeth grabbed for a blanket to cover her nakedness. “What’s wrong?” she cried.

  Fire Talon appeared in the doorway. “A delegation of Seneca, led by Yellow Drum,” he said. “They’ve come to negotiate the return of Elizabeth’s children.”

  Hunt ignored the two dozen stoic Iroquois warriors who stood guard outside the council house. He passed by without a glance, ducking his head to enter the large log-and-bark structure. A fire burned in the central hearth, but the stern faces of the Seneca sitting around it were nearly hidden in shadow.

  Counts His Scalps stood in the shaman’s place, splendid in a wolf-head cap and puma-skin cloak. His face had been divided into four equal sections with yellow paint. The quarter that included his right eye and temple was painted blue; the area that covered his left jaw bore a pattern of bright yellow thumbprints. A silver peace metal with a silhouette of His Majesty, King James I, hung from his neck, along with a necklace of bear claws and a small medicine bag.

  As Hunt watched, Counts raised a long-stemmed pipe to the four winds, then drew a puff, holding the smoke for seconds before slowly exhaling. Fire Talon, Fox, and Little Horse sat across the fire from the Iroquois delegation. Hunt took a seat beside Fox and waited while the peace pipe was passed among the men.

  Yellow Drum scowled at Fire Talon. It was clear to Hunt by the chief’s answering glare that the tension between Seneca and Shawnee was volatile.

  “I did not come to smoke,” Yellow Drum said in badly accented Algonquian. He waved away the pipe. “Give me my son or pay in Shawnee blood.”

  “Shawnee blood is dear to us,” Talon replied in Iroquoian, “but not so easily obtained as you may think.”

  Yellow Drum leaped up and pointed at Hunt. “This half-breed is responsible. He took my woman and my children.”

  “This is a council of peace,” Counts reminded the Seneca. “There is no need to raise your voice.”

  “Aye,” Little Horse agreed. “A soft voice rolls over the water. Anger’s voice is lost.” He smiled at Yellow Drum. “Sit, noble Seneca. We will hear your plea.”

  “Keep the woman. She is useless,” Yellow Drum said. “Keep her female cub as well. Give me my son, or I will burn these lodges around your heads.”

  Hunt’s temper flared. It took every ounce of will he possessed to hold his tongue. The arrogance of this Seneca was an insult . . . the thought that he had possessed Elizabeth against her will made his blood seethe with fury. He clenched his hands into fists, but he didn’t speak. Not yet, he told himself.

  Counts His Scalps threw a pinch of powder into the fire and it flashed up with blue sparks. A scent of bear invaded the council house. Each man smelled the musty odor; Hunt saw the reaction on every face. Common sense told him that there was no grizzly, but the prickling of hairs along his spine told him differently.

  “You are of the mighty Confederacy,” Counts said to Yellow Drum. “Who does not know of the wisdom of the Iroquois . . . of their valor in battle? And who does not remember the stench of corpses fallen when brother fights brother.”

  “You are a warrior as this man is a warrior,” Fire Talon said. “You are not a sachem—a wise man. Your way is the way of the ax.”

  “Enough talk. Give me my son, or you will feel the steel of that ax,” Yellow Drum threatened.

  Little Horse turned his attention to the gray-haired Seneca warrior sitting beside Yellow Drum. “Tin Hoop,” he rasped. “I see you.”

  “Little Horse,” replied the gnarled Iroquois. “I see you.”

  Little Horse chuckled. “We traded blows, this man and I, long ago.”

  The Seneca veteran held up a hand with two missing fingers. “Proof of my dance with Little Horse.” His laughter was the sound of dried cornhusks rustling in the wind. “A man’s honor is gauged by the strength of his enemies.”

  “None will forget the name of Tin Hoop,” Counts echoed. “Not his courage or his wisdom.”

  “If the Seneca had wished blood, they would not come to parlay,” Fire Talon said.

  Hunt heard Elizabeth’s voice at the entrance. He glanced in her direction and saw a young Shawnee brave bar the way.

  “I must go in,” she cried.

  “Fire Talon has forbidden it,” the brave answered.

  “Of what do we speak?” Little Horse asked. “The woman or the children? The boy child or the girl . . . Or ...” He looked questioningly at Tin Hoop.

  His old opponent took the offered pipe and drew a puff. The scent of ceremonial tobacco drifted up to blend with the stench of the invisible bear. “Yellow Drum? What say you?” the Seneca asked. “Did we not come for both children?”

  Hunt kept his teeth locked together. If he spoke a single word, he could not keep his anger in check. He would challenge Yellow Drum to a fight to the death. Blood pounded in his veins; his mind clouded with a film of red haze. He was not a man to hate other men, but he hated Yellow Drum. His fingers ached to tighten around the Seneca’s throat until his eyes bulged out.

  “Let them have the woman. I used her long and well and I tire of her,” Yellow Drum said. “Let any man take her who does not mind a green-eyed witch.”

  “And the girl child?” Little Horse leaned forward. “Is she to be a gift to the Shawnee as well?”

  “A rifle,” Yellow Drum said. “I’ll sell her for a rifle.”

  Hunt lunged to his feet and hurled his flintlock at the Seneca. Yellow Drum caught it, but not before the hammer struck his lip and split the skin. A thin trickle of blood ran down his chin, but he ignored it.

  “The price has been asked and paid,” Counts His Scalps proclaimed. “Does any man here deny it?” He tossed another pinch of the black substance into the coals. Again the air filled with the smell of a bear.

  “Who claims the woman?” Tin Hoop asked.

  Hunt would have shouted I claim her but Fox’s hand tightened on his arm. He swallowed his words and spoke quietly. “Elizabeth is a free woman. She belongs to no man.”

  “That leaves us with the boy,” Little Horse said.

  “I am his father,” Yellow Drum spat. “His father. For him, there will be no negotiations. Give him to me.”

  “What say you, old foe?” Little Horse asked Tin Hoop. “Did this not happen in our grandfather’s time? Did not a Shawnee woman take a Seneca husband?”

  “Whispers of Autumn was his name. He captured the pregnant Shawnee woman, Seed Planter.” T
in Hoop nodded. “I remember this well.”

  “Seed Planter had a daughter,” Little Horse said. “Not by Whispers of Autumn, but by her Shawnee husband. Seed Planter came to love Whispers of Autumn, and her daughter called him father.”

  “Seed Planter’s clan demanded the return of the child,” Tin Hoop continued. “Because of this, war raged between Seneca and Shawnee.”

  “And that war was ended,” Counts reminded the men, “when a price was paid to Seed Planter’s clan.”

  “So,” Fire Talon said. He glanced at Hunt. “So, this is not a new problem between our peoples.”

  “You Iroquois were ever a people of law,” Little Horse said. “A Shawnee child became Seneca, and we smoked the pipe of peace. Can this not be again? Can a Seneca boy become Shawnee?”

  “Not with my son,” Yellow Drum insisted.

  “Law is law,” Hunt said quietly. “Among the people of the plains, there is warfare, but also reason. It seems to me that you must accept a reasonable price for your son.”

  “My son is not for sale,” Yellow Drum thundered.

  Tin Hoop glanced at his three fellow Seneca, none of whom had spoken at the council fire. “What say you?” he asked.

  “A law once decided is not easily set aside,” said the first Seneca to his left.

  “So be it,” said the second.

  The third man looked at Yellow Drum, then back at Fire Talon. “You would risk war with us for the child of a white woman?”

  Fire Talon shrugged. “All men must die. It is the way of the Creator.”

  Tin Hoop spread his hands, palms up. “What price was paid before for the Seneca child?”

  “Two dozen guns,” Yellow Drum said. “Two dozen guns, forty beaver pelts, and ten strings of wampum.”

  Counts scoffed. “Ridiculous.”

  Yellow Drum smiled. “You have our price, Shawnee. Pay or fight.”

  “We will pay you,” Fire Talon said.

  Hunt glanced at him. “I don’t have that kind of money or trade goods. Perhaps Elizabeth’s father might—”