Passion's Series

by Adair, Mary

Lord Blake looked up with a start. "I think we should send for a physician. This is no simple swoon."

  "There is no need for a healer. This is an affliction she has endured since birth. Let me assure you, she's fine." He glanced around. "There are other ladies here that may be in need of a physician. I trust you will do whatever is needed to assure that they are cared for. I'll just take Dawn upstairs. She'll be fine. Lady Montgomery, would you be so kind as to lead the way to Dawn's room."

  "Of course, dear, this way."

  Raven did not miss Lady Gaylord's attempt to hide a chuckle behind her lace handkerchief, nor the startled look on Marguerite’s face as she watched Raven take Dawn into his embrace and easily carry her away.

  Chapter Three

  Raven dumped Dawn unceremoniously on the bed. With his mouth close to her ear, he growled, "Wake up, Dawn! Now! Do you hear me?" He pushed down several times on the mattress.

  Lady Montgomery placed a restraining hand on his arm. "Come Raven, I've sent Sara to fetch some tea for Dawn. She will attend her."

  Raven straightened and turned to his hostess. With an accusing finger, he pointed down at Dawn. "She's faking this, did you realize that?"

  Lady Montgomery peeked around Raven and smiled. "And very nicely, I'd say."

  "What?" Raven pushed his fingers through his hair, mangling it in the process.

  Lady Montgomery grabbed his arm and pulled it down. "Tsk, tsk. Now look at what you've done. You've messed up your hair. It's bad enough that you refuse to wear the proper wig. Now your sleek look is all discomposed."

  Raven reined in his anger. It was useless trying to vent his frustration over a woman's erratic behavior to another woman. It only left one feeling totally incapable. "You're making me feel like a child," he answered her in a quiet tone, as he pulled the ribbon from his mangled hair.

  "Well, you should. You're acting like a child. I suggest you go to your room and straighten out your attitude as well as your hair." She walked to the door and stood there expectantly until Raven, with one last glance over his shoulder, finally left the room.

  ***

  Though deep within the sleep, Dawn had heard Raven call to her. His voice vibrated with anger. Her own temper burned hot as well and threatened to break her control. She forced herself to sink deeper, to relax and let her spirit rest.

  It would be impossible to wake and not to challenge him. She would wait him out and give herself time to think. The sound of a squeaky hinge and the loud thud of the slamming door told her she was alone.

  Slowly she allowed herself to drift upward. Her pulse quickened and she drew in her breath deeply. She opened one eye and looked around without moving her head. When she was sure that he had left the room, she opened the other eye.

  The former frustration came crashing onto her and she whimpered in despair. With soft moans and irritated groans, she clumsily crawled off the over-soft mattress, her escape hindered by the slippery satin coverlet and mountains of fluffy pillows.

  "Men, ha!" she grumbled as she yanked the green satin coverlet off her ankles. Finally gaining her footing, she straightened and adjusted her clothing with a quick jerk here and there as she marched to the mirror. She turned from side to side, studying her image. The young woman in the mirror, with her dark golden curls and gown of blue satin, held no resemblance to the Cherokee maiden who dwelled in her heart.

  "I look as frail and helpless as every other woman downstairs," she said to her own reflection. "But you know better, don't you Raven? You know that the same free spirit that flows in your blood flows in mine as well." She yanked the blue ribbon from her hair. It caught on a pin and she yanked harder.

  "You haven't always hated that part of you, the Indian part. And you don't hate me either. I didn't need a dream to tell me that," she grumbled and tossed the ribbon aside.

  Dawn heard a thump outside her door and looked over her shoulder. The door remained closed. With a sigh and a careless shrug, she set about the arduous chore of undressing herself. Not that undressing was a problem. She needed no maid, she boasted to herself as she twisted and strained to reach the tiny buttons trailing down her back.

  A button snapped off and clinked lightly onto the brightly polished floor. "Err!" she moaned softly as she gripped the neck of her gown just below the shoulder seams and yanked gently. Two more buttons snapped free. She twisted at the waist and glanced down at the floor. Now she would have to find the buttons and sew them back in place. Without another thought for the lost buttons, she peeled layer after layer of the bothersome fluff from her body.

  Finally freeing herself, she stepped back from the pile of brightly colored silk and satin at her feet and gave the offensive garments a swift kick that sent the whole mess skidding across the floor, where it lay against the wall, a useless pile of expensive fabric. They wouldn't hold up one day in her village's garden, and would only be in the way on a warpath. Yet these silly English women clucked and fretted about every little tuck and bow. This white woman's fascination with useless fabrics was one that she would never understand.

  Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, she forced herself to relax. Losing control of her own impetuous nature would not help her cause. She couldn't blame Raven for being angry with her. What she had done downstairs was foolish. It wasn't necessary for her to gain coup on that woman. So what if Marguerite was Raven's fiancée, she would never marry him. Yet her presence did pose a problem. Dawn was here to save Raven's life and that vain and spiteful woman could get in the way.

  She turned to the bed and sighed again as she rummaged among the pillows and covers looking for the bright red strip of cotton fabric she'd hastily tossed there earlier. Finding it, she tied it about her waist, fashioning for herself a skirt that covered her, waist to mid-thigh. Next to follow the way of her clothes were the rest of the pins and ribbons in her hair.

  Running her fingers through her long golden curls, she appraised herself once again in the mirror. Satisfied, she turned from her reflection to the chore at hand, picking up and putting away all the hateful clothes cluttered about her.

  Maybe she would sleep on the floor tonight. That pile might serve some use after all. Shame settled over her and she shrugged. You would not so dishonor your hostesses, she scolded herself. She could not suppress a smile when she thought of the two women who had taken her as their protégé. The Ladies, as everyone in the household called them, had been so excited over the finery she now scorned. She must pick it up and put it away properly to honor them.

  Just as she bent to pick up an armload the door flew open. The room vibrated with the roar of her visitor.

  "Dawn!"

  Dawn dropped the bundle as she straightened and turned. Raven slammed the door shut behind him. She was pleased to see him at an obvious loss for words as his gaze landed on her bare breasts. She watched the dark, straight brows draw together above his eyes.

  His gaze moved to her face. "I'm sorry," he ground through clenched teeth. "I should have knocked before entering. I will step out and give you time to dress."

  "No need, Raven. I'm as dressed as I am going to be," Dawn smiled sweetly.

  His black eyes narrowed even more. How much he looked like his raven namesake: dark brows hooding his sharp eyes, the long proud nose beneath, strong square jaw, and his blue-black hair shining around his head. She had listened to others' remarks tonight, amazed at their words when referring to him. Dark, foreboding, hard to look at, they said. One woman even referred to him as frightening and wondered what his sweet fiancée could possibly see in him. To Dawn, he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

  "You're in London, Dawn, not Chota Town. While you are here, I must insist that you dress like a white woman. White women do not run around with their breasts exposed."

  Dawn feigned innocence. "But I am Cherokee. We grew up in the same village. You're not unfamiliar with the sight of women's breasts." She held out her arms, and with a sweeping gesture said, "This is acceptable dress for a woman in ou
r camp. Out of respect for our hostesses' customs, I will not leave my room dressed in this way. But in the privacy of my own room, I will dress as a Cherokee. I am not ashamed of who I am."

  Raven turned his back on her. "Fine, you want to live as a savage, stay in this room and don't show your face again." As he reached for the door, he added, "I can't believe you actually dropped into a death sleep right in front of my friends."

  His remarks cut her too deeply to hold her tongue. "Why do you torment me so?" she railed at him and he spun to face her.

  "Me? Torment you! Why are you here? Why did you come across the ocean, plant yourself in my life and then set about to destroy everything I have worked for?"

  She saw the anger in his black eyes, felt it heat the room. But he must understand. He must know that he belonged to her! "I do not try to destroy everything you have worked for. I only want you to remember who you are," she said firmly, and hoped he didn't notice the crack in her voice.

  He took two long strides and was suddenly a breath away from her. She backed against the wall. He loomed over her, his broad shoulders all but blocking the meager light.

  "Tell me who I am, Dawn? Do you want to tell me I am a half-breed savage as you are, Little Sister?"

  She heard the self-hate in his words. Anger and hurt ricocheted about in her mind like a thing gone wild. With an angry screech, she lashed out and struck him across the face. The impact stung her hand and she wanted to feel it again and again as she felt her dream of once holding this man's heart lift like an early morning fog.

  "I'm not a savage, and I'm not your sister!"

  He grabbed her swinging arms by the wrists and held them against the wall on either side of her head. She struggled against his hold, but he held her too securely. Somewhere deep within her storming thoughts, she realized that even in all his anger, he was not hurting her with his grip and her hope returned.

  "I don't understand you. You love your mountain home and your people, why did you come here?" he asked again, his voice almost pleading for an answer.

  His gaze took in her features like a drunken man contemplating a path he thought he had forgotten. His attention lingered on her hair and she saw his expression soften. When she was a child, he'd taunted her about her light colored hair and sky blue eyes. But then, as now, she knew he found no fault with them.

  His gaze met hers. "You come here and turn my life upside down, you insult my fiancée, you put yourself before my face and make me doubt my own convictions. What is this game you play?"

  "This is no game, Buffalo," she answered in a low, serious tone.

  "Call me Raven," he said with returning irritation.

  "I came, Raven, because I want you." She watched his face closely as she gauged his reaction to her words.

  A moment of surprise showed in his eyes before he was able to hide it.

  "You belong to me," she continued. "I don't care if you call yourself Raven Cloud, or your warrior name, Raven Who Flies To Meet The Clouds, or your childhood name Little Buffalo. You are my beloved. You belong to me. You need me. I will not let you go.

  He stood so close that she felt the tension in his body. He leaned gently against her.

  "You want me?" His voice held an incredulous note. "I have watched you grow. When you made me angry, I would paint my face with mud and hide in the cane to wait for you to come by so I could jump out and frighten you."

  Dawn smiled gently at the memory. "I always knew it was you. I have always known that you could never hurt me." Like now, she thought. With her arms pinned to the wall, his warm body pressing gently against her, she felt no fear.

  "Remember the time I followed you on your hunt?" she asked in a whisper.

  "Yes, I remember. I was angry with you." He relaxed and pressed himself tighter against her.

  She was acutely aware of his weight on her. His waist pressed against her so close that she had to tilt her head back to look into his face. She felt a heat uncoil in her belly.

  "You were angry," she agreed, and was amazed by the huskiness in her own voice. "But when I tripped and fell, you were so concerned. You gathered leaves and mud and made a compress for my swollen ankle. You used a piece from your own waistcloth to hold it in place and then held me in your arms all night to keep me warm. The next morning you took me home. You did not complain that because of me, you missed the hunt. It was then that I knew we belonged to each other forever."

  He let out a soft chuckle and his breath caressed her face. "You were just a child then. You didn't understand the ways of men and women, and I didn't see you as anything more than a child in need of care." He paused before adding, "Not then."

  Blue eyes peeking through long dark lashes peered tenderly at him. "And now? How do you see me now, my beloved?"

  She watched his jaw work. The battle he waged within himself coiled between them like a living thing.

  His arms rested against her arms, his open palms against hers. She hadn't notice when he released her wrists. She curled her fingers down between his. His breath slowed until she thought he'd quit breathing. His face moved slowly down. His lips hung tantalizingly above hers. She breathed deeply of him and felt her breasts press and flatten against his broad chest as the lace of his stock pressed uncomfortably into her tender skin.

  He brought his face closer. Just before his lips closed on hers, she felt life jump in his groin, pressing hard against her belly. She couldn't stop the gasp that escaped from between her lips as the fire within her leapt in response.

  His mouth came down on hers like a raging river after a spring thaw. She felt his rage, his confusion, and yes, his love in that almost brutal kiss. Even in his confused passion, he could not hurt her, could never hurt her. She knew this with all that was in her.

  Then, with a suddenness that left her quaking, he was gone. Her eyes filled with tears as Sara, her newly appointed personal maid, slipped through the doorway.

  ***

  Raven paced back and forth in front of Dawn's door. The gay music drifted up from the ballroom below. What had come over him? Was he losing his mind? How could he have let himself get so out of control? One moment he wanted to throttle her, the next he wanted to hug the little girl, whose devotion through his childhood had given him his only sense of self worth. He remembered thinking, if anyone as sweet and lovely as Dawn could look at him with such trust and love, then maybe he wasn't the soulless discarded animal he so often thought of himself.

  And then, Great Spirit help him, he wanted to make love to her! Not the meaningless, mindless rutting he shared with Marguerite. He wanted to be aware of every curve of Dawn's body, every soft inch of her skin. And he wanted her to respond with the sheer joy of being touched by the hands of the one man who loved her more than life.

  He'd always loved Dawn. From the day of her birth he'd loved her. As a child she was a lanky, awkward, funny child with no greater joy in life than to follow him about causing havoc in her wake. But he never minded. She was his one and only admirer, and he'd loved her for that. Now, the realization of this new kind of love for Dawn staggered him. It made a mockery of the time he had spent building his life in London, and shattered the illusion that he could ever be happy while wed to Marguerite.

  He pushed a hand through his hair and wondered for the hundredth time why this happened. Seeing Thomas Brown walk into his office was shock enough, to see the most beautiful woman he'd ever set eyes on at the old trader's side had filled him with wonder. Then she smiled at him and he'd recognized her.

  It had been ten years since he'd been to Chota Town, ten long, lonely years since he'd been told to leave the village. He turned and marched angrily to his own room. Once inside, he slammed the door, trying to shut out the past few hours, especially the last few minutes of folly.

  'I always knew you could never hurt me.' Those were her words. But then, she didn't know why he had been told to leave the village. She didn't know his anger was like a wild thing that lay coiled in the pit of his stomach waiting
to be unleashed. With the offending temper riding much too high, he walked with stiff legs to the open window and looked into the night. Below him a few guests walked among the carefully trimmed shrubs of the formal garden.

  He watched their slow and easy movements and tried to relax, to make some sense of what was happening. Looking up at the stars, he pleaded with the Great Spirit. Lord, what brought him here? He didn't belong here. His body sagged with the realization that he didn't belong anywhere.

  Soon he would have the information he needed. He would know the name of the heartless man who had planted his seed into the belly of a young Indian girl and then abandoned her. The name of the callous man who'd planted his seed to grow and to burst upon a world that had no use for his offspring. Then he'd seek his revenge on the man who had condemned him to a world in which he could never fit.

  He doubled his right fist and rammed it against the hard wooden frame of the window jamb. He did it again and again. Taking a deep breath, he turned from the window. His hand hurt. That was good. It gave him something else to focus on as he returned to the party.

  He composed his thoughts, walked to the door and opened it. Marguerite stood there, poised with her dainty, glove-covered fist raised ready to knock.

  "My dear, why have you left the ball?" he asked pleasantly and rubbed his aching hand.

  She batted her eyes innocently and looked up at him through her lashes. There was no denying her beauty. So what if she pretended to faint at the slightest provocation? All the women of her class in England did that and all the men knew it. It was part of the game...like pretending to be a virgin.

  He smiled in spite of himself at the memory of Dawn, the back of her hand placed delicately to her forehead, dropping like a downed buffalo right in the middle of the ballroom floor. And there she lay, a heap of silk with arms and legs stiffly spread as if pointing to the four winds, her eyes only half closed. The dozen or so female guests that went down after her, thinking they'd actually seen one of their own drop dead, had probably experienced their first real faint.