Candace McCarthy

by Fireheart

  Joanna scowled. She didn’t understand the word orphaned. She knew she was a girl, but she didn’t think she liked him calling her “orphaned.” She didn’t like his tone that suggested that it was something unpleasant and unclean. And she had just had a bath!

  She also didn’t like the way he spoke of her garment. Her doeskin tunic had been lovingly crafted by her friend Little Blossom’s mother. It was of the finest deer hide and was beautifully adorned with beads, embroidery, and porcupine quills. She was proud of her dress and thought her uncle would like it too, once she told him of the painstaking effort made by She with a Smile on her behalf.

  The manservant had left the room, and Joanna was alone again.

  A closed door along one wall of the dining room opened, and Roderick Neville came in. Joanna stood, remembering the way her cousin had taught her to curtsy, then tumbled to the floor in her poor attempt to execute it.

  “Good God, girl!” her uncle exclaimed as she scrambled to her feet. “I can see you have a lot to learn!”

  “Yes, uncle,” she murmured, hanging her head.

  “Look at me when I talk to you,” he ordered, grabbing her by the chin and jerking her head upward.

  Shocked by his rough treatment, Joanna looked up and stared.

  His gaze treated her harshly as he studied her and apparently found her wanting.

  “What in God’s teeth are you wearing?”

  “It’s a Lenape tunic,” she said in English but with an accent that told of the years she’d spent with the Indians.

  “It’s hideous,” he said. “You are never to wear it again, do you hear me? You are in England now. Leave your heathen things outside your bedchamber door, and Charles will come get them.”

  Give up her Lenape things? she thought. Never!

  “I’m warning you, young lady, if you don’t do what I say you shall pay the consequences. Do you understand?” He squeezed her jaw, making his message clear. She fought not to wince and murmured in the affirmative....

  A snap of a twig in the forest jerked Joanna to the present. She glanced about the woods, fighting tears. How she’d hated Roderick Neville, but she’d been afraid to defy him. That first day was only a taste of what was to come. Whenever she displeased him, whether she didn’t make the proper impression on his friends or some other offense, he would backhand her across the face, or take a strap to the back of her legs. Joanna still had the scars where he had cut welts into the fleshy part of her thighs with a leather strap.

  This had occurred when he’d caught her wearing her Lenape tunic for the second time. She had thought he would be out for the day. She had put on the dress for she’d been so miserable and wanted to surround herself with memories of the village . . . of love. She’d spent a happy afternoon in her room with her Lenape things surrounding her, the things she had refused to give up . . . and Charles hadn’t told on her.

  When Roderick Neville had come home unexpect edly, Joanna had been in the kitchen, emerging from her bedchamber for a brief bite to eat. Roderick’s eyes had widened when he saw her, then his face had turned beet-red with rage. He had grabbed the nearest weapon—his riding crop—and Joanna had run to escape him.

  She’d tripped on the stairs, and he’d caught her. Dragging her by the hair to her room, he had hit her with the crop across the back of the legs bared beneath the Lenape tunic. She didn’t cry. She had learned early on that to cry only incited the man’s lust for punishment. She bore the pain, sobbing in private only when he collected her Lenape things afterward. He took her tunic, her moccasins, and her string of beads. The only thing he didn’t get was a medicine pouch given to her by Wild Squirrel.

  As she listened to her uncle rant and rave about exorcising her of her “heathen” ways, she vowed that he would never learn where she’d hidden her precious medicine bag. She vowed, too, that while Roderick Neville might attempt to tame the “savage” in her, she would always have her memories.

  Joanna stood in the darkened forest and realized as she began to walk that her cheeks were wet with tears. She wandered aimlessly and found herself on the path to the lake again, heading toward the water rather than the wigwam. The thought occurred to her that Cara and Harry waited anxiously for her return, but at that moment Joanna didn’t care. She was hurting. Even from his grave, Roderick Neville had the power to bring pain.

  The thought of the cool wetness of the lake appealed to her, and she continued on, anxious for a swim.

  It was late. Everyone had gone back to their sleeping pallets. The shore was deserted as she’d expected. The moon was only a sliver in the night sky, but the clear clean air afforded a lovely view of the glistening water. Joanna slipped off her gown, and stood a moment in her shift, enjoying the light breeze that came in off the lake. She closed her eyes, and allowed the air to dry her tear-damp cheeks. She willed her mind to a calmer time, a more pleasant place than England and the manor she’d left behind. She hated the house for its darkness, its memories, and for everything it stood for in her life.

  Her uncle had had such an effect on her that she’d been unable to don Lenape clothing since her return to the village. Now, she silently scoffed at herself for her silliness. Her uncle wasn’t here. He was dead, and the choice was hers alone.

  She unfastened the ties of her shift and held onto the fabric. At one time, she’d had no qualms about being naked. She’d been the first to take off her clothes at the bathing hole. She’d gone about with only a kilt, and she’d felt comfortable, happy, and free.

  Don’t allow him to hurt you still, an inner voice scolded. Take off your shift. There is no one here to see you. Swim naked like the Lenape and the fish as it was meant to be.

  Joanna grabbed her shift and pulled it over her head. The breeze caressed her naked breasts, waist, and hips, brushing against her thighs and legs, stirring sensations within her that stimulated all of her senses.

  “Yes,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “Yes.”

  She lifted her lashes as she waded into the lake.

  A head emerged from the water only a few feet away.

  “No!” she gasped.

  But it was too late. Fireheart had already seen her, and he approached her with a strange look in his eyes.

  Chapter 7

  “Fireheart!” Joanna gasped. She dove under the surface to hide her nakedness, then came up choking on a mouthful of water. She wheezed, sputtering, and had difficulty catching her breath.

  Suddenly, Fireheart was there to help her, patting her on the back and soothing her.

  Once she could breathe again, she became conscious of her bare breasts above the water, and she hugged them with her arms. She tingled where he had touched her naked back.

  “You frightened me!” she scolded, backing away.

  “I did not know I would see you here,” he said softly. His dark eyes boldly eyed her breasts where the tops pushed up from her arms.

  She turned away. “Why are you here?” she asked, averting her glance. She was shocked when she felt the water swirl around her as he came closer.

  “I could not sleep.”

  Her skin tingled from his nearness. Her heart thumped hard in her breast. She bit her lip, then released it. “Are you worried about tomorrow?”

  He didn’t answer. The long moment of silence made her turn. She inhaled sharply as she felt the desire emanating from him. She swallowed hard. For me?

  “Fireheart,” she murmured.

  He seemed to snap out of a daze. She felt his demeanor change.

  “You should not be here,” he said. “It is not safe for you.”

  “Have I a reason to fear you?”

  “You might.”

  Joanna felt warmth in her stomach. She hadn’t expected such an answer. “Why?”

  “There are Iroquois about—”

  “No,” she said. “Why should I fear you?” Her breath slammed in her throat as he took a step closer. She could see his eyes clearly . . . the sudden gleam of desire.

&nbs
p; “You have to ask why you should run from this man?” he whispered, reaching to cup her chin.

  Warmth pulsed through her body. His fingers were gentle as they caressed her jaw, her cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned into his palm.

  “You are the same,” he said huskily, “yet you have changed.”

  She opened her eyes to gaze at him. “You are different,” she said, “yet I see a gentleness that is Yellow Deer’s.” His features were anything but boyish; the gentleness had been in his eyes.

  He frowned and released her. “Yellow Deer is a boy. I am not.”

  She nodded. He seemed offended. “I didn’t mean—”

  “You should go back to the wigwam.”

  “I’ve come here to swim.” She needed this time to banish the memory of her uncle. Standing here with Fireheart certainly helped.

  “Since it is not safe, you must swim with me.”

  Her heart tripped. “I thought I had reason to fear you.”

  He stared at her hard. “No,” he said. “I will not harm you.”

  She had never thought he would, not even with the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, not even when he was angry.

  “Come,” he said. “Let us swim.”

  Joanna was reluctant to move. She was supremely conscious of him as a man. Her body pulsated with life at his nearness, and she was embarrassed. She wondered how she could swim without revealing more skin. “You go first,” she said.

  He lay back in the water, kicking out with his feet, stroking with his arms. He continued to watch her, which set her nerves on edge.

  “Close your eyes,” she said.

  He looked amused. “When you were a child, you showed your breasts.”

  She felt herself flush. “I’m not a child anymore.”

  “Kihiila,” he agreed with such meaning in his tone that Joanna couldn’t help but laugh. Her laughter made him smile. “Come, Autumn Wind, forget you are English. Be Lenape again.”

  His words and tone enticed her. Wasn’t that what she wanted? To forget that she was a Neville and the niece to an awful man? To remember those times in the Lenape village when she had felt free, open, and loved?

  Joanna slowly lowered her arms. The air was warm, but little bumps rose on her skin. The tips of her breasts hardened as a summer’s breeze touched them.

  She caught Fireheart’s gaze, was unable to release it. It was dark, but she could make out the planes of his face in the shadows. There was enough light to see the glistening of his dark eyes.

  Her pulse racing, she lay in the water, and began to swim slowly, carefully, in Fireheart’s direction. His teeth flashed in the darkness as he grinned. He swam backward with her following, stroke after leisurely stroke, kick after gentle kick.

  “You swim like an otter,” he told her.

  She grinned. “You swim like Kuikuenkuikiilat.”

  He chuckled. She had told him that he swam like a frog.

  “Let us see who swims the fastest—the otter or the frog.”

  Taking up the challenge, Joanna shot through the water with her hands flat to her sides, kicking her feet to move quickly.

  Fireheart moved like lightning, and as she fought to catch him, Joanna marveled at how playful their exchange had turned after moments of tension laced with a strange almost sexual anticipation.

  She paused to see where he was, then laughed as she saw him disappear beneath the surface.

  When he didn’t immediately come up, Joanna became alarmed.

  “Fireheart!” she cried. “Fireheart!”

  She made a frantic search of the water for some sign of him. Beside herself with concern, she wondered what to do. Then a hand clamped onto her ankle and tugged her downward. Suddenly she was facing him in the water, and his hands fastened on her waist, drawing her close. To her shock, she felt his lips on her mouth, and might have drowned with the surprise of it, but then he was pulling her to the surface.

  She had no time to utter a word, as he kissed her a second time, holding her up in the night air beneath her arms, while her head spun and her body pulsed with wild sensation.

  The kiss seemed to go on and on. Joanna moaned softly as Fireheart raised his head and shifted his hands to cup her face.

  “Uitiissa,” he murmured.

  Pretty, she thought. He had called her pretty. She smiled, pleased, and felt his lips press against hers once again, tenderly exploring then becoming hotter. Joanna whimpered, and started to sink beneath the water.

  Fireheart released her mouth to tug her upward. He cradled her in his arms, and began to swim toward shore.

  Lying within his arms, her head against his neck, Joanna breathed in his scent, and felt her head spin with desire.

  Where was he taking her? Would he touch her, kiss her again?

  She was conscious when his feet hit soil; then she became embarrassed when he rose from the water, carrying her naked body, his own male form bare.

  The breeze caressed her damp skin, making it tingle. She burned wherever he touched her . . . along her back, under her arms, along her thighs . . . against one buttock.

  She thought he would put her down once he was on dry land, but Fireheart held on to her as he continued along the shoreline to a clearing, free of rocks and sticks and lined with pine needles.

  Here, he set her on her feet, releasing her slowly so that she brushed against him as she went down.

  “Autumn Wind,” he murmured.

  She could hardly breathe as she cupped his face, ran her fingers over his features. He grabbed her hand, and pressed her palm to his mouth. She closed her eyes as Fireheart nibbled on her skin, then turned her hand to kiss her wrist before taking her fingers and placing them on his bare muscled chest.

  His flesh was firm, wet, and warm from his body heat. Joanna began to touch him, loving the feel of him, the scent of his skin . . . the sound of his breathing as it deepened.

  “Fireheart,” she whispered. She was drawn to him as she’d never before been attracted to another. The awkwardness between them was gone. It had disappeared somewhere back at the lake. Here, in the forest clearing, they were man and woman. Fireheart and Autumn Wind . . . alone together in the night . . . and wanting.

  She slid her hands over his chest up to his nape and pulled his head downward. She yearned for his kiss again. His kisses were intoxicating, tender, and sweet.

  But the passionate meeting of mouths in no way resembled the previous kisses. It was a hot fusion of lips and tongue while hands fondled and stroked damp flesh and bare buttocks.

  He kissed a path down her throat, pausing at the base before trailing lower to her breasts. She waited with breath held as he lifted his head before capturing a nipple with his mouth.

  Joanna caught her breath in the sure joy of his suckling her. She cradled his head with her hands, wound her fingers in his long, wet hair, and arched closer.

  Fireheart lifted his head and eased Joanna to the ground, while embracing her. The scent of pine and other forest vegetation filled Joanna’s senses as Fireheart stretched out next to her. She lay open and vulnerable to his gaze and his touch, and she gloried in it.

  He began to caress her, beginning with her hair, then her face, and lower. But Joanna wasn’t content to be still. She stroked his chest, then reached to pull his head down once again for another kiss. As their lips touched, the fire of passion ignited between them.

  “Joanna. Autumn Wind . . . you are soft and smooth and I want to touch all of you.”

  How could he be expected to marry another when he clearly desired her? Joanna tried not to think about the Indian maiden Moon Dove whom Little Blossom had said he would marry.

  Yet, how could he not marry Moon Dove when she herself had no future with Fireheart? When she must return to England and manage her estate?

  His fingers brought her heaven. His lips coaxed her most passionate response. Joanna fought to banish the reasons for stopping, but the image of Moon Dove and the overwhelming responsibility of managin
g her late uncle’s property hovered outside the haze of ecstasy, intruding.

  She caught Fireheart’s head and held him away from her. “Little Blossom said that you will marry Moon Dove. Is that true?”

  He frowned and rose to his knees. “It is true that I must take a wife. It is possible that Moon Dove will be my mate, but that has not been decided.”

  Joanna experienced an odd little pain in the region of her heart. “Do you love her?”

  Fireheart scowled, clearly reluctant to talk about his prospective wife. “She is a good Lenape maiden. This man cares for her.”

  “How do you feel about me?” she whispered.

  “Joanna . . .” His face contorting with passion, he reached for her, lifting her into his arms. He touched her face and then kissed her. His lips tenderly worshiped her mouth and cheek before he buried his face in her neck and just held her.

  Joanna was convinced that Fireheart felt something special for her. His tenderness, his caring, and his reluctance to declare his love for Moon Dove gave her hope that this time between them would be a cherished memory, if nothing more.

  Suddenly, it became vital that she gave herself to this caring man.

  Fireheart was all that was good and true, and Lenape. Joanna lay back against the rich forest carpet, and pulled Fireheart down so that she could lie with him ... and love him.

  The sun slanting in through the smoke-hole in the roof of the wigwam woke Joanna the next morning. She thought back on her time with Fireheart, reliving the memory with a smile.

  Despite her willingness to lie with him, Joanna and Fireheart had not made love. As they’d kissed and caressed a while longer, both had sensed that the time was not right. Fireheart had risen from her side reluctantly, and strangely enough Joanna had been disappointed, but not hurt.