“Did you find any sign of your sister?”
He shook his head wearily in reply. “Nothing.” His concern for his sister made his voice as rough as beach gravel.
Sarita swallowed, her throat dry and scratchy, then swallowed once again as she watched him. True, he was her captor, but she realized she had grown to love him. It hurt to see him so forlorn. She ached to throw her arms around him and ease his pain away. Seeing his reaction to his sister’s loss brought home anew that he was a man capable of great depth of feeling.
Her thoughts were interrupted as he reached out one strong arm and pulled her close to him. He buried his face in her hair and held her tightly. She could feel the strong beat of his heart, smell the tangy sea smell of his skin. Relaxed in his arms, feeling protected, yes, even loved, she longed to ease his pain. Tentatively, she put her arms around his shoulders, half expecting a rebuff. Perhaps he didn’t want the comfort she could give him? His arms tightened about her, and, encouraged, she hugged him back.
“I do so wish you could find her,” she murmured. “Perhaps tomorrow--?”
He gave her another squeeze, then set her free from his embrace. Ill at ease, she got up and walked restlessly around the fire, then came back and sat a little apart from him. He sighed heavily. He began to eat his meal, all the while keeping his eyes on her face.
“How well do you know the slave called Rottenwood?” he asked.
Startled, she flinched involuntarily. What had Fighting Wolf found out? Did he know she was planning to escape? Her heart beat rapidly. ”Rottenwood?” she echoed, needing the time to think.
“Yes,” he answered casually. “He came from your village.” Fighting Wolf continued to watch her as he ate, his gaze unwavering. “We captured him at the same time we took you.”
“Why do you bring up such a thing now?” she asked frostily, angry that he’d mentioned her capture.
She thought he missed nothing as he continued to watch her. At last he answered, “I want to know if the man is honest. Can his word be trusted?”
Sarita thought for a moment. “I would trust him with my life,” she said at last, gazing defiantly back at her captor. Why was she baiting him? She didn’t want Fighting Wolf to guess her plans. She must be more careful, she warned herself.
He raised an eyebrow. “Strong praise, indeed, for a mere slave,” Fighting Wolf responded. He added casually, “Rottenwood approached me tonight. He told me he had seen a canoe leaving yesterday about mid-morning. There were three people in it—two old people and one who sat very straight. He thought it was my sister.” Fighting Wolf continued to gaze at her. “He told me it was headed south.”
Sarita said nothing.
”If, as you say,” he went on, “this man is reliable and his word can be trusted, then tomorrow we’ll search to the south.”
Her heart was hammered wildly. She felt weak with relief. She had been so sure he was going to accuse her of planning to escape. Instead, it was his sister he was worried about! She was voluble in her relief.
“Oh yes, Rottenwood is a very good man,” she praised. “He’s intelligent and I have the greatest respect for him. If he tells you something, I’m sure you can believe him. He has many skills, too: navigation, hunting, fishing—“ She stopped, feeling Fighting Wolf’s steadfast gaze upon her.
“Indeed?” he asked ironically. “And how do you know so much about this paragon?”
Blushing, she looked down at the cedar mat. Her hands twisted nervously in her lap. Frantically, she willed them to stop. Clenching her hands together tightly, she started to defend herself. “I—“
A loud shout outside the door drowned out her voice. One of Fighting Wolf’s warriors strode in. She sagged with relief at the interruption; Fighting Wolf appeared not to notice her reaction. He spoke calmly with the obviously agitated man who asked for his directions of where to search tomorrow. The warrior seemed anxious to start out at first light. After he had departed, Fighting Wolf looked at Sarita and explained wryly, “Another one of my sister’s admirers.”
He got lithely to his feet and stretched. “Come.” He reached for her and wrapped one brawny arm about her waist. She entwined her arm about his trim waist and together they headed for the little alcove.
In the privacy of the alcove, Fighting Wolf kept his arms around her and pulled her closer. They pressed together, kissing, arms embracing. At last, Sarita broke his hold and gently pushed him away. He sighed heavily and stepped over near to the bed.
Slowly, he unwrapped his belt from around his waist, carefully laying the knives to one side. She stood in the dull light of a lamp, watching him hungrily. His bronzed skin gleamed; his thick blue-black hair was tousled from the day’s activities. She wanted to reach out and touch the side of his chin. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.
He reached down and stripped off his kutsack. He shook his thick mane of hair. That magnificent body awed her. Muscular arms and thighs, a flat torso, his body radiated a quiet power. She shivered slightly at the thought of the power of that body inside hers. Her glance went back to his face and she saw he was watching her.
Now sitting on the bed, Fighting Wolf stretched out a hand to her. Still she stood, watching him. His hand hung there in the air, waiting. At last, she took hold, and let him pull her gently toward him. Woodenly, she continued to stand in front of him, marveling at the control he had over her.
Gently he tugged her down beside him and faced her. Reaching for the knot of her kutsack, tied just under her chin, he undid it. The knot gave way and he leaned closer, pulling her kutsack up and over her head, undressing her.
She shivered slightly. His black piercing eyes roamed over her possessively. For a moment, she saw passion flare in those arrogant eyes. She wanted to pull away, to deny that she was his.
Instinctively, he pulled her closer, and a low growl came from his throat. She felt a frisson of fear run down her spine. It was always like this, she thought desperately. She was afraid of him, yet could not pull away. For she wanted him, too.
He ran his warm palms up and down the sides of her body, firmly and possessively mapping her flesh. Pulling her closer, he sat her down over one muscular thigh.
Yes, she is beautiful, this little slave
, Fighting Wolf thought to himself. He reached up and ran his fingers through her thick, loose hair.
“Your hair,” he murmured. “Such an unusual color—“ It was true, he had never seen a woman with comparable sable-brown, gold-highlighted tresses. “It makes you all the more valuable to me,” he chuckled.
At his words, she shook with anger. He saw her as a mere possession! She struck his hand away. “Is that all I am to you?” she demanded. “Someone you own? Do you sit up nights and count out the value of each of your slaves?” She lowered her voice in an approximate imitation of his. “Hmmm, this one I could trade for two canoes, that one for only a small bale of dried fish. But Sarita, hmmm. That hair color. Very unusual. Should get a good price for her.“ She left off mimicking him. “Is that what you do, Ahousat dog?”
Fighting Wolf realized she was angry with him. The appellation “Ahousat dog” was the tip-off. But tonight he did not feel up to coping with her anger.
“I’ll ignore your striking a chief, a crime punishable by death,” he said in a low menacing voice that he had not used with her before. That brought her defiant chin up. His hand went to her hair and he gently stroked the back of her head. Suddenly he grabbed it tight and held her head immobile for a long moment as he looked into those beautiful golden eyes.
He saw a flicker of fear flash in her eyes, then it was gone. “I don’t feel like taking any of your insults tonight, little Hesquiat slave. So don’t goad me. You won’t like the results, I promise you.”
She winced as he drew her down onto the bed, his hand still clutching the thick mass of hair. In the face of his considerable anger, her own melted. It would be foolish to antagonize this hardened man any further in the mood he was in. She cast about for a way to defuse the situation. The sudden thought occurred to her, too, that he was especially upset because of his sister’s disappearance. A wave of compassion rippled through her; she knew what it was like to fear for one’s family. How ironic that it had been this man who had taught her that fear!
Still, she felt a curious stab—was it pity for him?—deep in her breast and she knew she could comfort him this night if only he would let her.
She reached up to gently touch the cleft of his chin, as she had been aching to do all evening. Her soft gesture caught him by surprise. For a moment, he continued to clutch the back of her head tightly.
Then he relaxed his hold. She reached up and entwined her arms around his neck.
The almost seductive smile she wore entranced him as she drew him down to her and softly rubbed her nose against his cheek, then his nose. As she rubbed against him, she murmured soft reassurances to him, reassurances that he was important to her, that he was a kind man, that things were good between then. Relaxing under her gentle ministrations, he felt his anger change to something else, a driving passionate need that could only be slaked by this woman.
Outwardly passive, he let her continue to cuddle against him as he felt himself growing unbearably hard and full. He needed her and the release she could give him.
With a low growl, he leaned over her and pushed her thighs apart with one strong thrust of his knee. Both his large hands came up under her buttocks, and positioned her for his entry. Then he was inside her. He watched through narrowed eyes as she squirmed and writhed, impaled on his strong lance. Her head thrashed from side to side; she was caught up in the physical rhythm of his thrusts. His eyes closed as he pushed again into her warm, velvety softness.
She gasped at his entry. Her whole frame shook. His powerful thrusts drove her into the furs at her back. At first, she tried to push him off, but looking into those hard eyes, she knew she would never get away from him. Excited now, she saw him watching her, masculine possession on his face. She felt herself relax. How could she fight him when she wanted him in any way she could have him—strong inside her like this or compassionate and gentle as he’d been on other nights. She was one with him now, no longer fighting him or herself.
Fighting Wolf strained against her, his seed shooting into her. Sarita felt him climax, and they went over the edge into bliss together. He felt her shudder under him as her muscles contracted around him.
Sweet, so sweet, she thought dazedly, intense feeling beyond anything she’d ever known.
Fighting Wolf’s forehead was damp with sweat and he felt the perspiration on her breasts slick against his chest. He rolled off her and blew out the lamp that cast a dull glow over their panting, wet bodies. He leaned across her, his eyes heavy-lidded from spent passion.
Her golden eyes gazed up at him. They stared at one another, then she opened her arms and he came into them.
They lay that way for a long time, Fighting Wolf accepting her wordless comfort.
Her faint whisper came out of the darkness and awakened him. “Fighting Wolf?”
“Mmmm?’
Sarita swallowed nervously in the dark. “What do you plan to do with me?”
There was a short silence. “Make love to you again,” came the sleepy reply as one large hand inched towards her breast.
“Fighting Wolf,” she began again, brushing him away. “I’m serious. What do you plan to do with me?” He heard the tremor in her voice. “Keep me as your concubine? Trade me? Please tell me.”
More awake now, he answered, “Keep you with me, of course.”
After a long silence, she ventured, “Fighting Wolf is your revenge against my people, against my family, satisfied now?”
He grinned into the darkness. “It most certainly is. Better than I could have ever imagined.”
Her face flushed crimson at his response and she was glad of the dark that hid her from him. “Do you keep me now as a reminder of how successful your revenge was?” she asked, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
He sat up. “Why the questions, Sarita? What are you asking me? If you’re asking for your freedom, I’m telling you now you’ll never get it!” He slumped back onto the bed beside her, fully awake now. What was the woman up to?
She tried a different tack. “Fighting Wolf, what would you do if I—if I –became pregnant?”
“Why?” he shot back. “Are you?”
“No, no,” she answered hastily, anxious to reassure him. “I was just wondering what you would do if I were. Pregnant, that is.” She waited, holding her breath.
There was a long pause as Fighting Wolf thought about her words. Then his answer came softly in the night. “Many slave women become pregnant. They have the baby, life goes on…What exactly is it you are asking me, little one?”
Sarita let out her breath, shakily. “I want to know,” she said at last, “what you would do with your child that was born of a slave?”
There was a long silence. “Do?” he responded casually. “What could I do? Everyone knows a child born of a slave is a slave.”
“It doesn’t bother you that your own child, your own son—or daughter—would be born a slave?” she asked incredulously.
There was another long silence. “I didn’t say it wouldn’t bother me. I said that a child born of a slave remains a slave. That’s how it is in this village. That’s how it is in your village. Of course, I would love my child, whether born in slavery or born free.”
That statement sounded like an afterthought to Sarita. “Will you have children that are born free, Fighting Wolf?” she asked wistfully.
“Someday,” he answered. “I’m a war chief. I must have heirs. I come from a good, noble family. I have many privileges, songs, dances and properties for my children to inherit. I must have many sons and daughters. Heirs,” he repeated.
“And to have heirs, you must marry,” she finished dully.
“Of course,” he replied, amusement lacing his voice. “How else will I have heirs?”
At that moment, Sarita felt something die inside her heart. Never had she felt so alone. “What about me?” she asked bitterly. “I, too, come from a noble family. I too, have many privileges, songs and dances and territories for my children.”