White Shadows (7 page)

And after her bath she planned to soak up the warmth of the afternoon and do what she did every day: watch her captor and learn his weaknesses. When the time came to escape with Spotted Deer she’d be ready.

After scrubbing her hair with the root of
hupestola,
she waded deeper into the lake to rinse her hair, keeping her back to the man beyond the brush shielding her. By the time she finished, dried herself off and re-dressed in her dusty clothing, she was shivering so hard she could barely walk.

Hugging herself, rubbing her hands up and down her arms, Winona headed for a rotting log bathed in the late-afternoon sunlight. She sat, shook her wet hair out behind her and glanced around. This side of the stream was heavily wooded. Across the lake there were fewer trees. A peaceful meadow lined the bank. From where she sat she could pick out the tiny splashes of color and see birds darting through the air as they caught flying insects.

She sighed. The beauty, the normalcy of the scene, unsettled rather than soothed. As did the obvious fact that her captor felt safe enough to stop so early in the day. She sat in the open and he seemed not to care. Did this mean there was no one on their trail?

Winona wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Yes, she wanted her father to ride in and rescue her. Yes, her captor would pay—with his life. But what would happen to Spotted Deer should her father catch up with her captor before he rejoined the other warriors and Spotted Deer?

Another chill racked her body. This one came not from being physically cold, but from deep inside. This was her fault. Her impetuous actions had put not only Spotted Deer in danger, but each warrior who rode with her father. She had no idea if Clay had more warriors waiting wherever he was taking her.

Winona stared at the pale yellow fingers streaking across the sky. Daylight was fading fast. Night would descend quickly. Where was Spotted Deer? Was she afraid? Hungry? Cold? Worry churned her stomach. She sniffed, then swung her head around. She smelled burning wood.

Clay had started a fire. She frowned. Why would he chance a fire with her father and warriors following? Winona didn’t doubt her father was following. He’d never give up. So what was her Cheyenne captor up to? Was this some sort of trap?

A quick glance around showed a normal late afternoon in the hills. As far as she could tell, she and her captor were the only ones in the area. Studying the leaves of a nearby bush, she noted the presence of
Tate,
the wind spirit. He blew against her, away from camp, taking the smoke and scent of fire away from the direction they’d traveled from.

Either Clay was foolish or complacent. She rubbed her forehead. Something told her he wasn’t either. The way he’d taken her and Spotted Deer, the way the four warriors had separated, told her that he knew what he was doing. She tipped her head up and sniffed the air.

He was cooking. Fish. Winona closed her eyes. If Clay felt safe enough to cook their meal, it definitely meant her father wasn’t close enough to smell the cooking food or see smoke from the fire.

“Come to the fire.”

Winona started at the low command. She turned slightly so she could see Clay. He stood close enough for her to see the moisture clinging to the fine dusting of dark hair covering his thighs. He’d discarded his leggings and buckskin shirt, and the sight of him left Winona dry-mouthed.

Most Indian men lacked a thick coating of hair on their bodies. This outward proof of his white heritage should have repulsed her, made her think less of him as a man, but it didn’t. Instead the hair on his legs and arms intrigued her. Her gaze lifted slightly to the bit on his chest.

Staring at his honed, muscular body sharpened her senses, made her remember how it felt to sit in the cradle of his arms with his front pressed to her back, and the feel of his arms firmly around her waist. Even the backs of her legs had rested and swung and bounced against his. She felt her cheeks redden.

There were other body parts that seemed to bounce and rub together. The thought of those places made her face flame and ignited a strange feeling in her middle that radiated outward. Heat chased the cold bumps from her skin and made her toes and fingers tingle. He was most definitely handsome in a way that Hoka Luta was not.

Horror and guilt spread through her, making her tremble. How could she find him attractive? Handsome? He was the enemy. He was using her, and causing her pain and misery as she fretted daily over the welfare of her friend and worried over her mother and family and what they had to be feeling. Then there were her own feelings of guilt. Had she not insisted on riding unescorted, none of this would have happened.

Guilt plunged the lump in her throat down into her belly. Swallowing hard, she forced her gaze upward. Forget his body. Look into his eyes. See the coldness of a man who uses women as pawns. But her gaze refused to move past his taut, brown, hard-as-stone belly, his equally hard chest.

Winona laced her fingers together and took several deep breaths, striving for control and indifference. Forcing herself to turn, she presented Clay with her back. She had no need to stare upon his body. None at all.

Then why is your mouth so dry, and your heart racing?

Winona preferred to attribute that devious question to the traitorous spirit
Iktomi
, a spiderlike man known for pranks and practical jokes.
Iktomi
was a trickster with power to work magic over anything or anyone.

After all, the Cheyenne warrior was no different from any other warrior, and no other warrior had ever made her feel this way. Not even Hoka Luta, which meant this was not real but a prank.

Closing her eyes, Winona called Hoka Luta’s tall, strong image to mind. Hoka Luta was braver. Stronger, yet—

“Did you not understand what I said?” Night Shadow’s quiet, controlled voice startled Winona.

She opened her eyes and scowled as Hoka Luta’s image fled as silent as a hawk carried away by the wind. From the corner of her eye Winona saw Clay move to stand beside her. The edge of his breechclout swayed open, revealing the junction where one thigh joined his torso. She flushed.

To hide her embarrassment, she sharpened her voice. “I have no need of your fire,
waglula.
” Though he’d given her his name, she didn’t use it. When she did, she found herself remembering how vulnerable he’d seemed during his nightmare. So now she called him a different name each time she addressed him, finding immense satisfaction in insulting him—all without his knowledge. It also reminded her that she was a captive, and he her enemy. And right now, he was
worm.

He folded his arms across his chest. “It matters not what you call me. You will join me at the fire. You are cold. I have no desire for you to become ill. The battle I wage is between me and my enemy.”

Swinging her damp hair hard enough to send droplets of water flying his way, Winona lifted a brow. “If this battle is between you and another, then why am I here?” She speared him with a haughty glare.

He remained silent, his eyes silently commanding her to do as he’d ordered.

“You are
kokayehanla. Sahiyela kokayehanla
.” She saw that he recognized the Lakota word for Cheyenne. She smirked. He didn’t know that
kokayehanla
meant
chicken.

Night Shadow clenched his jaw. “Yes. I am
Sahiyela
.
Cheyenne
.
Tsetsehesestaestse
in my tongue, but what you call me is not important. You will come back to camp. Now.” He strode away.

Winona wished she dared to run after him, jump on his back, claw his hair out. Better yet, she mused, her gaze falling on a large round rock. But she’d do neither, even though it burned that the
wasicu
acted as though she posed no threat. She gave a self-deprecating laugh. The
white man
—from now on she’d think of him as white, not Cheyenne—was shrewd. Clever.

He’d found the one and only way to secure her compliance. He knew, as she knew, that she’d attempt nothing if it meant putting Spotted Deer in danger. She narrowed her eyes. But that didn’t mean she had to be weak and mindless.

“Nenaestse!”

Ignoring whatever he’d commanded, Winona reached down and plucked a tender blade of grass from the bank of the lake, then nibbled on it as though she had not a care in the world. Though she expected it, she still tensed at the sound of her captor’s voice behind her. She never seemed to hear his approach, which also irked her.

“I will not ask again.”

Winona shrugged. “Then don’t. I prefer to be alone in the cold than to share a fire with a
gnaska.
” At his raised brow, she made the sound of a frog.

“Be careful,
pohkeso.
” He took one step forward, his hands resting lightly on his hips.

“Or you will harm Spotted Deer?” She meet his angry gaze with a defiant one.

Clay rubbed the back of his neck. “I am no monster. I have not harmed you or your sister. You have not suffered.”

Winona stood. Tipping her head back, she glared up into his face. Using one finger, she stabbed him in the center of his chest.

“I suffer.” Stab.

“I suffer being away from my family.” Stab, stab.

“I suffer knowing my family is worried. My mother is suffering, my father. My people. Do not tell me I do not suffer.” Before she could punctuate her outburst with another stab, Clay grabbed her hand.

He looked furious, his eyes nearly black with anger. “My enemy cared not who suffered at his hand. Blame him.” With no warning, his arm snagged her around the waist and he lifted her off her feet, holding her around the waist with one arm as he headed toward the fire.

“Put me down. I will return to camp when I am ready.” Winona kicked out with her feet and swung her arms. But her captor tightened his hold around her ribs. She slid down a few inches, his arm slid up beneath her breasts, and her dress rose to the top of her thighs.

With only the thought of freeing herself so she could hide her flesh, she stuck her foot out to stop him. Instead her leg caught between his, and suddenly they were falling.

Winona found herself pinned beneath Clay. Again. Or sort of beneath him. He lay more on his side, his scarcely clad body angled over hers, his arms wrapped behind her to soften the fall.

His right knee lay bent beneath her buttocks, her left knee caught between Clay’s thighs and her right dangled over his hips. Shifting, Clay brought his left over hers so she was trapped beneath him and sandwiched between his thighs. He leaned over her.

Winona licked her lips. She started to lift her arms, which were over her head, resting on the cool, soft mat of her hair. She changed her mind. There was no place to put her hands, except on Clay.

Time seemed to stand still as they stared at each other. Above them, the last of the sun’s rays faded, leaving the sky deep purple—not black, not blue. It was a color for reflecting on the day and preparing for the evening.

Caught in Clay’s dark gaze, Winona chewed her lower lip. The mood from defiant and demanding had fled. This new silence between them unnerved her. She felt strange. And hot. Especially where they touched intimately.

Clay said nothing. He just gazed down at her, his eyes warm with an emotion she’d not seen there before. She felt vulnerable yet aware as never before.

Air slid over her body, twisting around her legs, dipping beneath her skirt, which she only now realized had slid up her thighs, helped by Clay’s left knee. “G-get up,” she said under her breath.

Clay’s eyes never left hers. “Why?”

“I-I’m cold.”

His brows lifted. “You were in no hurry to come to the fire. Perhaps I should warm you.” He shifted over her and planted his forearms on each side of her head.

“Not that cold! Get off me.” Winona shoved at him but Clay was immovable.

He turned his head and stared at their tangled bodies. Embarrassed, Winona tried to pull her legs free, but his thighs tightened. The brush of thick, curly hair rubbing against her upper thigh made her gasp.

“C-Clay!”

Slowly Clay swung his head to face her. “Yes?” He ignored her attempts to dislodge him.

“What are you doing?” Her voice came out high and thin.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Once again he shifted his body.

Winona caught her breath. The movement was enough to lift her left leg a few inches higher and cause the skirt of her dress to fall further. And judging by the amount of air brushing against her most private place, she was completely revealed.

He started to turn his head. This time Winona grabbed his head and kept him from looking. “You…you
zuzeca!
”

Clay tut-tutted. “Heard that one before. Running out of names?” He bent his left knee even more.

Winona gasped. That small movement was enough for him to be smack against her, his knee, her mound. The hair on his knee mingled with her woman’s hair.

Flushing from embarrassment, Winona moaned, “Get off me. It is getting cold a-and I am hungry. You have f-food.”

“I am hungry as well. But not for food.” He lowered his head slightly.

Winona pushed at his head to keep him from coming any closer. Her gaze flickered from his eyes to his mouth. His lips parted. She closed her eyes, afraid. He was going to kiss her! What torment was this? Did he plan to take advantage of her? Rape her?

Scream, fight,
she told herself. Instead she held her breath and waited.

Shove him, use your fist, the heel of your hand. Break his nose.

All her father’s instructions for defense came to her. She lifted her hand, but instead of striking she traced the outline of his mouth with her fingers.

Full, soft and parted. A very nice mouth when his lips weren’t compressed with anger. Realizing that something was happening, something that could be more of a threat to her heart than her body, she slid her hands down to his shoulders.

“Please, Clay. I will come.”

For just a moment Clay looked startled. Then he laughed, the first genuine laugh she’d heard from him. “Now that would be interesting,” he said, grinning.

He was making fun of her and she had no idea why. She punched him in the shoulder. “You have to get off me first.”

“No, I think it would be much more fun if we came together.” Again he looked amused.

Winona frowned. Something had changed between them. The longer they touched, bantered and stared at each other, the more she felt as though she were sinking deeper into the unknown.

“Sunka,”
she muttered, calling him a dog. Maybe if she made him angry again he’d get off her. He was too hot and the air too cold against parts of her. The mixture of sensations heightened her awareness of where they touched—and where they didn’t.

She couldn’t think with all the heat coursing through her body and the peculiar sensations settling deep into her belly, only to radiate outward and make her ache and throb in a place that had never felt the touch of another.

“Name-calling is not very nice.” He was still chuckling.

“Nor is forcing yourself on me,” she shot back.

Clay looked amused. “I have not touched you—yet.” He licked his lips. “But you touched me.”

Embarrassed by the truth of his words and angry at her own weakness, Winona decided it was time to end the game—before something more happened. No, she corrected herself.

Nothing happened. He was just trying to prove he was bigger and stronger. And in control.

Well, she’d had enough. “You had your fun. Now let me up.” To show she meant business she lifted her right foot and brought her knee toward her, then planted the sole of her foot against his hip to shove him aside.

Winona froze in horror.

Clay’s laughter died just as fast.

Clay had shifted his body back at the same time. Now her foot lay smack against his manhood. His very hard manhood.

Clay sucked in a breath but his lungs refused to work, so he ended up choking instead. Winona’s foot was pressing against the very part of him that longed for her touch.

She looked horrified. He felt…hard. The pressure of her foot, the slight twitching, had finished what their close positions and sexual bantering had started. Now it was his turn to swallow hard. Of all the…

Winona’s eyes flashed: a brief warning. Moving quickly, he grabbed her calf with his hand just as she pulled back her foot to no doubt give him a swift kick. She struggled. Clay lifted her leg to keep her from doing any serious damage and rolled, holding her leg with his arm. Now she lay on her side with him half over her.

He groaned. Could he have made things worse? Judging from Winona’s squeak of surprise, he didn’t think so. His arm had slid between her legs and was now clamped between her thighs, against her soft, moist mound.

“You…weasel!” She tried to bite his arm.

Clay quickly pulled both his arms away and straightened his body and hers. But he didn’t get off her. Now they were flush against each other. There was no point in trying to hide his erection, so he didn’t.

“Do not push too far,
pohkeso
.” Perhaps
kitten
was not the right word to describe his captive.
Wildcat
again seemed more fitting. All fierce spitting and clawing. No tears. No begging. Just defiance. Even in a position in which he could take advantage of her, she refused to panic.

She opened her mouth. Knowing she was about to spit another name at him, Night Shadow narrowed his eyes. “Do not. I have heard enough from you this day.” He glared down at her. Though the light was fading fast, he had no trouble seeing the furious glint in her eyes. He was thankful that both her feet were pinned.

“If you do not wish to hear my opinion of you and your actions, then release me. And Spotted Deer.”

“No.”

“You have no honor. You are a coward. A—”

Night Shadow closed his mouth over hers in a fast, furious, hard kiss.

Startled, Winona was forced to bring her tirade to a halt. His lips took hers, moved over hers and demanded a response. Hesitantly her mouth parted, and her lips opened and closed over his lower lip while he kissed her upper. Then he took her mouth into his. Submissive to his demands he kissed, suckled and licked. When she gasped for air he moved to the corner of her mouth and used his tongue to lap and entice her to open wider.

Winona complied. Night Shadow, satisfied that he’d had the last word, decided to end the kiss. Maybe now she’d do as he ordered and stop with the names. His lips pulled away, but only to slant over hers and continue a gentle exploration.

Stop,
he ordered himself.
You’ve proved your point
.

To his dismay, he couldn’t stop. Instead he sank down onto his elbows so he could get closer, taste more of her.

Winona wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him hard against her. She moaned. Night Shadow opened his mouth wider and swallowed the sound, breathed it deep into his lungs and savored the sweetness. Beneath him her body softened, cushioning his. He felt himself sinking as if she were absorbing all of him into her.

He shifted upward, searching for a soft, warm bed for the throbbing length of him. Winona’s legs parted slightly, allowing him to fall into the cradle of her pelvis. He basked in the feel of her soft, bare thighs against his. The knowledge that only his breechclout separated their bodies ignited the smoldering embers licking through his veins. Liquid fire gathered between his legs. Need for this woman consumed him and threatened to burn him alive.

He needed this. Needed her and wanted her with a wildness that left Night Shadow shaking.

“Sweet,” he murmured, nibbling on her lower lip.

His left fingers tangled in long, silky-soft hair. “Soft.”

She was gentle. Tender.

His. Only his. No one else would know this pleasure. Especially not—

No! He lifted his head. This woman was not his. Would never be his. She was a pawn. A tool to end his torment and suffering. Nothing more, nothing less. He rolled off her, got to his feet and rested his hands on his knees while attempting to calm his heart and ease the tightness in his lungs. He felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. Knocked in the head.

What had started out as retaliation for her defiance had released emotions he’d thought long buried. The soft, loving part of him had died the day Jenny had been taken and his family killed. He’d been left for dead, and dead he’d remained.

He clenched his jaw. Gentleness would not get his sister back. Only by remaining focused and strong could he win. What had he been thinking to allow himself to be carried away?

Night Shadow repressed a shudder. He’d meant to teach this woman a lesson, and instead he’d freed something within him that was better off dead. Over the years he’d mated with women, usually widowed women, but not once had he lost control in this manner. Mating was a way to ease the tension from his body. It had never controlled him.

Night Shadow straightened. He had a mission, a quest, and nothing would sway him from making good on a promise he’d made while his life’s blood had seeped from his wounds into the ground. He should have died, but sheer determination, the need to avenge the wrongs done to his family and hold his sister in his arms once more, had given him the will to live.

But the kiss shared with his captive, the verbal sparring, her innocence and courage had called forth a deep, aching need for the loving touch of a woman.

Night Shadow jumped to his feet and strode back to the fire he’d started. Impossible. What he felt for his captive was simply lust. Nothing more.

The dream started out the same. She was a child, darting through the trees. She heard her own laughter, and the laughter of someone behind her. Breaking into a small clearing, she saw her mother sitting in front of a tipi.

“Ina! Ina!”

She ran into her mother’s outstretched arms. Though her mother was sad most of the time, she hugged her tight.

Suddenly there was noise. Lots of shouting. And screams. Her mother stood and shoved her away.

“Run,” her ina cried. “Run.”

But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Too much noise. Too much blood. It was everywhere. It even sprayed over her.

Then she saw the bear. He was covered in blood. He’d killed and now he was after her. But this bear wasn’t fun. He didn’t make her laugh. He frightened her. And he’d hurt her.

She ran as fast as her small legs could, but the bear grabbed her from behind. She screamed.

The dream changed abruptly. She was a grown woman now, walking alone in the woods. The child, where was the child?

Always the dream was the same. First the child, then the woman seeking the child. She shifted onto her side, curled into a ball and tried to end the dream.

But it continued, followed its course and held her mind captive. She walked toward a stream. Thirsty, she needed water.

Suddenly she was floating above the woman in her dreams. “No,” she cried out. She tried to wake up. She knew what was coming.

Get away!

But the woman didn’t hear her warning. As she dipped her hand into the stream a body floated toward her. The water turned red. The woman jumped back. Another body joined the first, then another. A cloud of death rose from the bloody stream and threatened to swallow her.

The woman woke with her hands held out from her body. She shook. Her heart pounded and she felt chilled to the bone. Tears ran down her cheeks and she sat, drawing her knees to her chest as she rocked back and forth. Just a dream. It was just a dream. She repeated those words over and over. It had felt so real. Real enough that she could still hear the screams, taste the fear and see the blood. The blood had been everywhere.

She rubbed her forehead to ease the ache that usually followed the dream. As always, the dream left her shaking, sick, scared. No one knew of this dream. Not even her mother had known. She’d always been ashamed of this dream of death. She’d been well loved, so to dream of death made her feel as though she were betraying her parents’ affection.