LeClerc 03 - Wild Savage Heart (18 page)

“Lesson number three, Mrs. Royse,” he replied, a handful of mud held in her sight, “never, ever, throw mud at a Shawnee warrior.”

“I’m sorry.” Molly’s feeble apology was totally destroyed by the giggle that accompanied it. Her eyes grew huge as she watched the threatening mud move slowly closer to her face.

“No you’re not.”

“No, really,” she said earnestly, her hand locking onto his wrist, “I am sorry.”

“You’re only sorry that I’m going to take this mud,” his arm moved in spite of her efforts to prevent it, “and drop it here.” It landed with a wet plop onto her belly.

“Oh, uck!” she giggled merrily. “Now I’m all dirty.”

“Not to mention wet!”

“Whose dumb idea was this, anyway?”

“Yours?”

“Huh! I was perfectly content to sit in my nice cozy,
dry
cabin and watch it rain.”

“You said you wanted to take a walk.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “So let’s walk.”

They slipped and slid down the paths that had become so familiar in the past weeks. Molly occasionally stepped on a stick or small rock that hurt her tender feet but Hawk seemed impervious to such afflictions.

Heading toward the sound of the rapidly flowing river, Hawk intentionally walked away from the hill where Adam’s grave rested. He didn’t want to chance changing her mood by inadvertently reminding her of the loss. Her childish pleasure in walking through the pouring rain told him more than words ever could of the simple things she had been denied as a child.

Three days of rain had turned the gently flowing creek into a cauldron of raging water, overflowing its shallow banks and obliterating the boulders that normally rose above water level in the center.

Leaning against a tree, Molly watched the bubbling water flow past her feet. The rain wasn’t as heavy beneath the canopy of leaves. It dripped almost gently, washing the mud from her face.

“What makes it rain?” It was more of a spoken thought than a question.

“My people believe that rain is the tears of Mother Earth.” A raindrop hung suspended from Molly’s matted eyelashes. With an infinitely tender touch, Hawk caught it on his finger. “Mother Earth is crying because she has seen the damage done by man to her trees and flowers, her creatures great and small, her rivers and oceans.”

His deep voice wove around her, cocooning her in the magic of his words. His finger had caught the raindrop and had stayed to caress her damp cheek softly. “She cries for hours or days, until she sees that her trees reach to the sky, begging for sunlight. Or that her birds sit huddled in misery for lack of warmth. Then she dries her eyes so that the sky clears.

“Sometimes, in remorse, she will paint the sky with a rainbow.”

“Mother Earth is the Shawnee god?”

“No, their god is called Manitou. He is like the white man’s God, only more so. The Shawnee feel that not only did he create everything on earth he
is
everything on earth. He is the trees and grass, the earth and sky. His voice is the breeze that whispers secrets through the trees, his breath the wind that blows violently before a storm. The sun and moon are his eyes, all the creatures that walk or crawl or slither are his ears.

“Some would say that Manitou made you from honey and stardust.” His hand moved to her hair and he raised the sodden strands to her face. “Your hair is the color of the sun shining on a honeycomb, your eyes share that color and have the added sparkle of golden stardust.”

He let the hair fail to her shoulder and he ran a gentle finger across her cheeks, tracing a path over the countless freckles. “Where the sun has kissed your face it has left proof of its approval.”

Mesmerized by his voice, Molly watched as his face moved closer to hers. Her lips parted in anticipation, her breath caught in expectation. His ebony eyes blazed as his hand moved to the back of her neck.

With a visible shudder, Hawk suddenly released her and moved away. “Someday, when we have a lot of time, I’ll explain Shawnee religion to you. It’s quite involved.” He breathed deeply several times to regain control, then offered his hand to her. “Let’s walk back to the cabin.”

Hand-in-hand they returned to the cabin. Molly fought the conflicting emotions that raged through her; disappointment that he hadn’t kissed her clashed with relief that he had moved away. She wondered about the texture of his mouth — would it be soft and gentle or hard and demanding — then she berated herself for having such thoughts.

She had been a widow for only a few months, surely it was wrong even to think about another man. Molly didn’t stop to consider that she had now been a widow longer than she had been a wife.

“Fetch some soap and I’ll help you wash your hair,” Hawk offered at the door.

“In the rain?”

Hawk chuckled at her startled expression. “You’re soaked to the skin already, a little more water won’t hurt anything. And the mud’s so caked in your hair you’re never going to get it out alone.”

After digging out her precious bar of scented soap, Molly stood patiently in the pouring rain while Hawk worked soap into her hair. The rich, fragrant lather filled the air with a flowery essence and she closed her eyes with pleasure as Hawk’s strong fingers massaged her head.

“Is it possible to sleep standing up?” she asked, her voice almost purring with delight.

The effect on Hawk was completely different.

Teeth tightly clenched, eyes closed, he struggled against his growing desire to take her into his arms and make her his. He silently cursed the restraint imposed upon him by Linsey’s teachings. If he had been raised in the Shawnee way he would have taken her, without concern for her own desires.

Hawk knew in that moment that it would take little inducement for him to become the Shawnee warrior that coursed through his feverish blood.

To wash the soap from her hair, but mostly to cool himself off, Hawk picked up a bucket of water and poured it over her head. He handed her another bucket of water and motioned to the cabin.

“Go on inside and get dry.” He grabbed his bow and quiver of arrows from the inside wall near the door.

“The true Shawnee warrior, heading off to provide for his family in spite of weather conditions,” she teased.

Her teasing bordered too close to his earlier thoughts. “Be glad I’m not a warrior or I wouldn’t be leaving you right now even if we were threatened with starvation,” he said cryptically as he strung the bow and slipped the quiver over his shoulder. With a look that said far more than words, he turned and disappeared into the rain.

With her still-damp hair tied at the nape of her neck, Molly finished cleaning up from the evening meal. Hawk had returned empty-handed from his hunting but his expression made her refrain from teasing him. He had been quiet throughout the meal and again he sat on the floor adding some finishing touches to her knife sheath.

“Where’s your knife?” he asked, suddenly breaking the silence.

Molly pulled the knife from her stack of belongings and carried it to him. As he slipped it into the sheath he said a silent prayer that she would never have to use it. From one end to the other it measured just a couple of inches longer than his hand. Wielded by an expert it could become a deadly weapon. In the hands of a novice it could be little more than an irritant to an antagonist.

“Try it on.”

Molly took the sheathed knife from him. A long, narrow strip of hide at the top was matched by a short, equally narrow strip at the bottom. She started to tie it around her waist when his cold voice stopped her.

“Under your dress.”

“What?”

“Wear it under your dress,” he repeated with exaggerated patience.

“Why?” Molly asked in a whisper.

Because of his years spent in a white man’s environment, Hawk was not surprised by her horror at his suggestion. Of the many things that still had the power to amaze him, the way white women hid their bodies had to be among those at the top of the list. The layers of clothes in even the hottest of temperatures were a mystery he knew he’d never solve.

“If the knife is under your dress then no one will be aware that you have it, and no one will be able to take it away from you. Surprise will be on your side and if your opponent is larger or faster than you, then surprise may be the only thing that saves you.”

“I can’t wear it under my dress!”

“Why not?”

“Because … because it’s indecent!”

“Being raped is indecent, Mrs. Royse,” he replied viciously. “Having no way to protect yourself is indecent. Being murdered is indecent! Wearing a knife under your dress is self-preservation.”

“That may be true, but … “

“This is not a game, Mrs. Royse,” Hawk interrupted. “You’re in the wilderness, not on some civilized city street.” He rose from the floor and pulled the knife from her trembling hands.

“This thing just might give you enough edge to save your life. I’ve told you about the men who would use your delectable body to satisfy their own lust, but there are others.”

Kneeling in front of her, Hawk grabbed the hem of her skirt and pulled it up out of his way. Molly instinctively grabbed the material as it was thrown in her face. Her face turned a deep scarlet when he threw the two layers of petticoats up, exposing her lace-trimmed drawers and a good portion of shapely leg. Despite the temptation, she didn’t dare let her skirt drop. Hawk was not someone to trifle with when he was determined to see something through to the end. And he was determined to see that the knife was strapped to her waist beneath her skirt.

Hawk quickly tied the thong around her waist. “There are some who would cut your finger from your hand for that gold band you wear.” He tied the matching thong low on her thigh, checking to make sure it was snug but not tight.

“There are those who would steal anything that might appear to have some value and they won’t be polite about it. There are wild animals who will attack simply because you’re walking on their territory. And let’s not forget snakes, Mrs. Royse.” His smile was merciless as he reminded her of the encounter with the snake. “You might just run into another snake and be grateful that this knife is there.

“You’ll learn to raise your skirt and palm the knife as quickly as possible.” He pulled the skirt from her hands, ignoring her red face, and settled it about her ankles.

“Lift your skirt and go for the knife.”

“Hawk, really …”

“Do it, Mrs. Royse!”

Molly wasn’t brave enough to defy him when he used that tone of voice. Swallowing her embarrassment at so wanton a display, Molly raised her skirt and reached for the knife. Hawk’s eagle-eyed gaze did nothing to ease her discomfort as he watched her actions. He readjusted the knife slightly to the front of her thigh, then pulled her skirt free.

“Again!”

Once more Molly raised her skirt, her hand reaching for the weapon. “Better,” he mumbled. “But not nearly fast enough. You have to learn to raise that skirt in seconds and get that knife in your hands. It’d be better if you didn’t have those petticoats to contend with.”

“I will not go without undergarments!” Molly didn’t think her face could get any more flushed as it did at his casual mention of her intimate apparel.

“No one is telling you to run around undressed, Mrs. Royse,” Hawk replied roughly. “By all means, wear as much clothing as you deem necessary. But I want you to practice retrieving that knife over and over again until it becomes swift and natural.

“And wear it in the same place each time. It’s at the end of the natural extension of your arm. It’ll be easier for you to grab it there.”

“Hawk, I really don’t think this is necessary,” Molly stated as she settled her dress around her ankles. “It feels very strange to have it strapped to my leg.”

“Only a fool goes through life unprotected. I never figured you for a fool, Mrs. Royse.” Hawk stood and moved back. “Get your knife.”

“Hawk, really … “

“Now!”

Gritting her teeth, Molly lifted her skirt. Right hand, left hand, right hand, the skirt was raised enough to expose the knife. Grabbing the fabric in her left hand, she unsheathed the weapon.

“Use your left hand first,” Hawk instructed. “Left, right, left, then your right hand is free to grab the knife without readjusting the fabric.”

Muttering beneath her breath about dictatorial men in general and one overbearingly arrogant man in particular, Molly practiced raising her skirt until Hawk was satisfied that she had the movements down, if not the speed.

“Practice every chance you get,” Hawk said as he turned away. “Eventually you’ll be capable of reaching your knife before someone knows what you’re doing.”

“Does Linsey wear a knife strapped to her leg?” Molly asked, the disdain in her voice conveying her doubts that Bear would insist that his wife wear such a weapon.

Hawk turned to her, his intimidating countenance breaking into a grin. “He made her sheath himself.”

“Of course he did,” she muttered, defeated. “I think you must take after him more than you know.”

“Thank you.” His grin spread to a full smile.