by Karen Kay
“You do not like it?”
“No.”
“Then prove to me it is not true.”
“Oh!” she muttered. “I…”
Talking was useless, especially considering the state of her undress, how closely her body was snuggled up to his, the state of his arousal.
She really had no choice but to back away, pick up the deerskin robe and pull it quickly around her.
She started to turn, to flee into the shelter of the trees, but before she was able to take a step, he drew her back into his arms.
“There is much passion between us, white woman,” he said huskily, his head once again descending toward hers. “You must take the precaution of staying as far away from me as possible. I cannot say that I will be able to let you go if we get into another position like this.”
He kissed her then, his lips coming down over hers, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, his scent, his taste overwhelming her.
But before she reacted to it, to him, before she again fell victim to this insane desire, she pushed away from him, and with one last look at him, at the passion so clearly etched there in his eyes, she whimpered.
Then she turned and fled.
Chapter Ten
A week passed in much the same manner as it had since their escape from the boat. She slept through the day, traveling at night; he hunted, worked, rested during the day, guiding their course by starlight. She avoided him, but then she had always avoided him. The main difference was that since their kiss, she now projected sexual meaning into every small chore he did.
It was maddening.
When she watched him light a fire, she remembered the way his hands had felt upon her face. When the firelight shone on him, lighting up his features, she recollected how handsome he had looked under the dawning of a new day.
As he carved away at a piece of wood, she recalled his firm, yet gentle caress. Watching him carry a deer for skinning, she remembered his cradling her, holding her. He spoke; she watched his lips. He ate; she stared at his tongue.
It went on and on, and Genevieve began to despair that she was becoming obsessed. In truth, unless she could get away from him soon, she might likely seek him out and ask for his kiss: a fate she could not allow to happen.
And so she found herself hoping for rescue, wishing for deliverance, longing for freedom—but most of all, praying for a change in attitude, an indifference toward him.
It didn’t happen.
But, even worse, she didn’t understand her reaction. Yes, the man was handsome, desirable, even beautiful in his own exotic way. But the man was also Indian. A mocking, discourteous, ungracious Indian at that. He was also not a man she should be allowing liberties with her.
She had never given much thought to the sort of man who might, at last, attract her, but if she had, it wouldn’t have been someone from an entirely different race, a completely alien society.
It would have been someone from her own social set, someone like her father, someone…
How could she be attracted to Gray Hawk? She could make no sense of it whatsoever.
Yet she could not deny the effect he had on her. How could she? She had to fight his allure daily.
She knew, too, from watching him, that he fared no better than she did. And though that should have brought her some measure of relief, it had the opposite effect on her: it stimulated her.
But he avoided her more now than he had ever done in the past. He no longer tied her, and the gag, which she had protested so much, had never again touched her lips. In truth, he did nothing that might lead to his having to touch her, nor get too close to her.
He said few words to her, too, and rarely did he even look her in the eye.
She knew she should thank him for his thoughtfulness in this; she even knew that she should acknowledge his strength of will. She found, though, that she couldn’t.
She felt like cursing him for that strength…then, contrarily, wanting him…disgusted with him all over again, and finally, returning full circle, enchanted with him.
But most of all, she found herself wanting him, his touch, his embrace; and though she was certain she would have rejected him had he made even the smallest of overtures toward her, conversely, she felt slighted when he didn’t.
Perhaps she was bored. Maybe that was her trouble. Or perhaps she suffered from captive-itis: a condition, she was certain, wherein the captive desired, became obsessed with, had wicked thoughts about, said captor.
She sighed, smiling and shaking her head. Whatever the problem, she hoped only for a resolution soon. Anything would do: rescue, escape, premature death, something. For, in truth, the current state of affairs was driving her mad.
“Why has the white woman not married?”
His question had the effect of striking out at her, so engrossed was she in her thoughts.
She had just awakened, pushing back the deerskin robe that had been covering her, and was yawning when his question came at her like an arrow upon its mark.
She hadn’t expected him to speak, had presumed they would continue much as they had this past week, each of them ignoring one another. If she had envisioned him talking to her, paying her any attention at all, she certainly wouldn’t have imagined his bringing up a subject so delicate. Not when they were both trying to pretend that they had no effect upon one another.
But then, she was measuring his responses by a set of English standards and sensibilities. She was no longer in England, and even if she were, Gray Hawk was not one to fuss over conventionalities.
She should have realized.
“Sir,” she said, sitting up and running a hand through her hair, “I would like you to know that I have a name.”
He raised an eyebrow, his only response.
“It is Genevieve, thank you very much.”
He inclined his head, then repeated, “Why has the white woman not married?”
She gave him a ladylike sniff. She looked at him but didn’t answer.
“White woman is beautiful. White woman is passionate. White woman is resourceful.” He stared at her directly. “Why, then, is white woman not married?”
“What makes you think that I am not married?”
He shrugged. “I know it.”
She came to her feet and, bending down, picked up the deerskin robe. She shook it out, being careful not to disturb Gray Hawk’s woodworking as she did so; his crafted arrows, bows and tiny statues were all, in her opinion, works of art.
She folded the robe and, looking around her, was amazed at the number of Indian articles they now possessed: moccasins, breechcloth, bags, belts, robes—all made by Gray Hawk…all carried, when they traveled, by her.
She shook out her hair and, with the deerskin robe still in her arms, gazed down at him, noting again his change in clothing. No longer did he wear the black breeches and boots. Those had long ago been replaced by breechcloth and moccasins.
She didn’t approve of the change, of course. Why should she? The Indian clothing exposed too much of him to her scrutiny, and his breechcloth did little to hide his natural endowment. She gazed there now.
He was altogether too handsome.
Realizing where she was looking, what she was thinking, she all at once brought her glance up to his. He grinned, and she bristled.
“Why not look at me closely, as you once instructed me to do, and find the answer to your question yourself?” she asked snidely. “Did you not teach me that you needn’t ask a person about a matter when the answer is right there before you?”
“I have been trying to do this,” he said, his gaze quietly resting upon her. “And I cannot discover the truth of it, though I am certain you are not married, nor are you in love with a man. What I cannot understand is why.”
“Well, you needn’t expect an answer, since I don’t believe I gave you permission to ask me such a personal question.”
He just stared at her. “I need no permission.”
“And I need not answe
r.”
She turned thereupon and started to walk away, but Gray Hawk was too quick for her. Springing to his feet, he caught her and locked her in his arms, bringing her up closely against him.
It was the first time he had held her, touched her, since that day one week ago.
She shut her eyes briefly, her reaction to his nearness sweeping through her like a tornado of fire.
He brought his head down toward hers. Again he asked, this time with his lips pressed closely to her ear, “Why are you not married?”
She shrugged out of his embrace, and though every fiber in her skin felt as if it were on fire, she held her head high, her chin out. “That is my affair.”
“And I am making it mine,” he said, stepping forward, staring at her as though she were quarry. “I ask you again, why?”
She shook back her hair, pushing it out and away from her face. She glared at him. She said nothing.
“Is the white woman running away?” He moved a step forward. “Is she promised to someone she cannot abide? Or does she merely wish a little excitement before she must settle into marriage?”
“Why, none of those.” She took a step backward.
“If she wishes to make love without marriage, I can surely accommodate her.” He pressed forward. “Is this the reason she has come into Blackfoot country? To play the part she desires without others within her society discovering her transgressions? The white trappers who captured me and brought me to you said this was so. They jumped me from behind. Did you know that?”
She shook her head. She backed away still farther. “No, I—”
“They knifed me in the side, and while two held me down, another one kicked me. And all the while they told me the things that you wanted, things you would do to me, telling me that you would have me this way because you could do no such thing in your own culture, not if you wished to live there in peace. At every kick, they told me what you would do to me. Sexual things. Sensual things. Very stimulating things.”
Her eyes wide, she took one more step backward.
“I thought these things that they told me were true. I could see no reason why they would not be…that is, until several days ago. And then it came to me that you had never exhibited any sexual overtures toward me when you held me captive, nor even more recently, when I held you close and you could have had me any way that you desired. And this, despite your own passion.
“It was this,” he continued, “more than anything else, that caused me to realize that the trappers lied. So now I find myself looking at you in a new way, and I find that I cannot discover why the white woman would come into Blackfoot country. I thought I understood this woman. I did not like her, but I understood her. I no longer do. Most of all, however, I wonder: if the white woman is not the sort of woman who desires many favors from many men, why then is this woman not married?”
He moved forward; she backed away.
She said, “You…you believed that I…?”
He nodded.
“How could you?”
“I did not know you.”
“But—”
“Your trappers took me captive. It all fit, or so I thought.”
“It wasn’t true.”
“None of it?”
She shook her head.
“Then why,” he repeated, “why are you not married?”
“I…I…you… I do not have the time.”
He frowned. He stopped. “I do not understand.”
“My father. All my life I have traveled with my father. I have devoted myself to him, to his work. I am his assistant. I do the same work he does. I help him. I have no time for anything else, anyone else.”
“And your father allows this?”
“Why would he not?”
“When he dies, what happens to you then, if you have no husband?”
“I…” Of course, she had thought of this once or twice, but she had never seriously considered the possibility. Her father had always been spry, young for his age, full of life and energy…at least, until recently.
Said Gray Hawk, “I think you should consider marriage.”
“And I think you should mind your own business.”
“What is this business that I should mind it?”
“You know what I mean.”
He smiled. “Has the white woman escaped her father and come into Blackfoot country looking for a husband? If so, I should tell her that I am not available.”
“As if I would… I thought you were not married.”
“So am I not.”
“Then why are you not ‘available’?”
“I told you once why this is so. Think back, Little Captive, to what I said to you in the past.”
She lifted her head, jutting out her chin. “Why should I when I am not interested?”
He took another step forward. “Are you not?”
“No.”
She might as well have waved a red flag at him. Without warning he reached out and pulled her into his arms, his head swooping down over hers.
His lips dangerously close to her own, he said, “Tell me again that you are not interested.”
She glared up at him. “I am not interested. I could not care less about your marital state.”
He smiled then, but she didn’t have time to ponder its meaning.
He said, “Your breath is so sweet when you say that.”
And then he captured her lips with his own, his tongue sweeping forward to tantalize her.
She pushed at his chest; he pulled her in closer.
She pounded on his shoulders; he took her hands in his own.
His lips left hers briefly to trail kisses over to her ear, down her neck, up to her eyes, back to her lips, his tongue tracing their outline, then to the other side of her face, the action repeated.
“Gen-e-vee.”
It was the first time he’d ever said her name. It was the first time she’d ever heard her name whispered with such a note of passion, the sound of it foreign, titillating.
His lips hovered over her ear; then he swept down over her neck, his lips, his tongue kissing every single part of her skin.
It was all too much. It was her undoing.
She shut her eyes as crazed yearning swept through her.
“Gray Hawk,” she murmured, little knowing that she’d said anything. Her lips seeking his, she turned her head. She touched his lips with her own.
Explosion. It was the only way to describe what happened next.
She leaned in closer, he bent farther down.
They met. They kissed, their tongues seeking each other’s as though paying homage to one another.
She gave, her whole being engulfed by him. He took.
His sweet taste filled her mouth; his scent, masculine and musky, enveloped her. His touch, firm yet gentle, aroused her to a point where she had no idea of time or place.
Her arms went around him, and even as he caressed her back down to her buttocks, pulling her in closer, she stroked her hands up and down his back—his magnificent, bare back.
The imprint of his sexuality pressed against her stomach, and she nestled up closer to it, glorying in the fact that only a piece of rawhide separated him from her.
And all the while, his lips had never left her own, his tongue stroking inside her mouth, in and out, as though only in this way could they obtain pleasure.
She shivered, desire racing through her blood.
She wanted him. She wanted his bare skin against her own. She wanted more of him, every part of him. And she would give him all that she had to give.
She swooned, arching her back and pressing her breasts to him in open invitation.
His lips left hers, and she smiled lazily up at him.
He said, “Tell me now, Gen-e-vee, that you are not interested in me as a husband.”
He shouldn’t have spoken. He shouldn’t have said a word. He should have just taken what he wanted, anything he desired…
But he didn’t. He
broke the spell. And worse, he’d just made her feel terribly wrong.
Her reaction was strong, if not immediate. And she realized right away what she had allowed to happen.
Embarrassment overwhelmed her.
She gasped. She’d wanted him, yes; she would have made love to him too, without even thinking about it, so lost had she been in his arms. In truth, she’d been his for the taking.
It shouldn’t have been. She should have resisted him. But how could she? She would have had to have been a saint to turn him away.
She’d not been able to help herself. Emotion had encompassed her, emotion more forceful than anything she’d ever experienced. She’d always been attracted to him, more so lately. But this?
He’d held her, simply held her, but the sensuality that had coursed through her veins made her realize she’d been awaiting this moment for weeks. And she wouldn’t have denied him anything. Not when the intoxicating taste of him was upon her mouth.
She moaned as the truth hit her. She had feelings for him, powerful, strong feelings for him.
But with his words, his misplaced humor, all that potency, all that wonderful, pent-up emotion, was turning on him. It was shifting on her, too, her passions mixing up, becoming unsteady, crashing in on her as though she stood in the middle of a lumberjack’s forest.
It was all too much for her.
“Oh!” She pushed at his chest at last. “How dare you!”
He grinned. “Easily.”
“Oh!” she said again, stepping back. She threw her hair over her shoulders and stuck out her chin. She said all at once, almost in self-defense, “I don’t want you.”
He raised an eyebrow. He put his arms over his chest. He smirked.
“How could I want you?” she went on, her words, her feelings, spontaneous, any affinity she’d felt toward him changing quickly to the opposite, to malice. And she could little control herself when she said, “You are a savage, Gray Hawk, a heathen, an Indian, and that makes you no better than an animal in my eyes. If ever I were to look for a husband, it would never be among a member of a different race of men, I can assure you. I would sooner die.”
The atmosphere around them grew suddenly cool and very quiet.
She should have taken heed.
