White Dusk (14 page)

“I wish I shared his belief.” Swift Foot pulled her close. He hardly understood what was happening. Yesterday and before, the sight of this woman had only reminded him of the love he had lost. But somewhere he’d realized that there was something more being offered here: a chance at happiness and redemption.

Even had he not been promised to Small Bird, he could not have brought Emily back. Not with the war between the two tribes. His people would have objected, for it would have been a daily reminder of his father’s choice to put himself first, over the well-being of his people. Swift Foot could never do that, would never do that. His love for Emily had been doomed, for he would always put his people first and seek ways to atone for the past. Small Bird offered him a chance at both, and to be happy.

She pulled away. “One day you will believe. Our destiny is linked, and that truth, and the truth will be revealed.”

He stared at her intensely. “I wish you to show me. To prove the truth of your words.” His head drew closer. “But later. Much later.” Then he kissed her.

Small Bird leaned into him, but Swift Foot kept his passion under control as gently and tenderly he explored her. He moved slowly. He teased and tasted, nurturing her growing need. When his wife’s breathing turned erratic, he left her mouth to explore the slender length of her throat. His hands roamed over her; one pressed against her lower back, fingers splayed wide; the other supported her neck.

Reaching down, Swift Foot slid both his hands down the soft swell of her buttocks. His fingers gripped her thighs and he lifted. “Wrap your legs around my waist,” he whispered.

Small Bird felt light as the morning fog floating across the stream bank. Above her, the sky was lightening. Her legs hugged Swift Foot, bringing the part of her that throbbed up against the hard ridge of his manhood. The feel of him sped her heart and made her mouth go dry. He rocked against her. Beneath her tunic she wore leggings, but her womanhood ground against his breechclout, felt the swelling flesh of his desire.

One of his hands massaged the back of her neck; the other caressed her buttocks. “I feel strange,” she whispered. The fluttering in her belly didn’t hurt, nor did the pulsing of her sex. But with each slow rub of fabric against her body, her unrest grew.

“You feel desire,” Swift Foot murmured in her ear. He pulled her lower body tight against him. “Feel what you do to me.”

He held her in place until Small Bird thought the hot pulsing and throbbing of her body would drive her crazy. She squirmed. Though they touched intimately, it wasn’t enough. Using her hands, she brought her mouth to his.

“Do not tease me any longer,” she begged.

Swift Foot returned the urgency of her kiss with his own. He moved against her slowly. She moaned. Then his grinding grew fast, which made her pull away; the intensity was too much. He slowed, moving ever so softly, forcing her to tighten her legs around his waist in order to maintain contact. Then came a hard thrust that made her cry out and shiver in his arms. Surely she’d burst apart from the intense feelings coursing through her body!

Swift Foot lowered her to the ground and knelt before her. Small Bird shuddered at the feel of his fingers creeping up her thigh beneath her tunic. When he reached her waist, he made quick work of releasing her left legging. It fell.

“Turn,” he said.

With his hands still on her waist, Small Bird turned to allow him access to her other side. The brush of his fingers across her buttocks made her gasp. Again the warmth of his flesh was shocking. A moment later, the second legging fell. His hands did not leave her. They spanned her waist until they found the ties that held the leather belt around her waist, to which each legging had been tied.

His gaze burned into her as his fingers skimmed her belly to undo the knot. Then the belt, too, was loose. Instead of whipping it off of her, he lowered his hands slowly. The belt inched down and off of her in a manner that had Small Bird’s heart pounding in time to the throbbing between her legs.

Swift Foot dropped one end, reached between her legs and removed the belt entirely—stroking it over her heated flesh as he did. Small Bird leaned on her husband’s shoulders, overcome.

Sensations assailed her. She’d had no idea. She knew how a man and a woman mated, knew what went where, but these feelings and the growing ache inside her were foreign. “What is it you are doing to me?” she gasped.

Swift Foot stood and wrapped her belt around his fist. He lifted it in triumph. “I am making you want me as much as I want you. Do you want me, wife?”

Tears streaming down her face, overcome by happiness, Small Bird nodded. She held out her arms. “Yes, husband. My need is great.”

Swift Foot took her fingers in his and lifted her hands over her head. He grabbed the hem of her tunic and slowly raised it. “Look at me as I look upon you. Know that I desire you.”

Small Bird didn’t even think to be embarrassed as he slowly revealed her to the world. She did as he commanded. She watched him and saw the way his eyes darkened, focused on his parted lips, heard his ragged breathing. Then, as if he could stand it no more, he drew her garment over her head.

Standing naked before him, Small Bird smiled shyly, then stepped forward. “I will see my husband, too,” she said.

His flesh was hot when her fingers slid beneath the cloth of his shirt to find the knot of his leather thong. As he’d done for her, she slowly loosened it, allowing the breechclout to fall lower and lower, revealing her husband inch by inch.

At last, he grabbed her hands. “No more teasing,” he said, his voice thick with desire. His breechclout fell. He scooped up her tunic, swung her into his arms as well and carried her away from the muddy stream. He found a patch of grass, set her down and spread out her tunic.

Small Bird took the hand he held out, and knelt in front of him. When her husband pulled her close, then forced her back, she obeyed, loving the feel of his hard, muscular body pressing against hers.

“I will be gentle. I promise.” Once more he bent his head to kiss her.

Small Bird gave herself up to the pleasure, waited for the wildness that had overwhelmed her before. But it didn’t come, for Swift Foot remained gentle. He was controlled, and her frustration grew. She wanted the beast within him. The beast she’d seen. Not this controlled person he presented to the world.

She knew the truth, knew violence lived deep inside him. And it was that part that made him so passionate. She pulled his head back. “Kiss me.
Really
kiss me. As before. I want all of you.” She pulled her knees open and wrapped her legs around him as she’d done while they stood. “I want all of you.”

Swift Foot stared down into her eyes. He didn’t want to lose control. He feared that he would hurt her. “No. Slow. Easy,” he said. He tried to resume their kiss, but Small Bird bit his lower lip. She tugged on it, suckled and stroked it with her tongue. Her hands roamed his back, and her legs tightened, bringing them naked flesh to naked flesh.

Her hips lifted and circled against him. He felt the springy curls of her womanhood on his sex. He jerked his hips, unable to stop the involuntary movement. Then he felt her heat, and the moistness that proved her need.

“No,” he moaned. “Slow. Controlled.” His hands bunched in her hair to keep from going to her breasts. He had to bank his desire.

Small Bird ignored him. Her body continued to rub and press hard against his. She tipped her hips up, trying to merge their bodies. On his back, Swift Foot felt the sharp sting of her nails. “Now. Make us one,” she said. “Be the man you are. Do not pretend. Not with me. Not in this.” The scrape of her teeth against his throat, the stroke of her tongue along his collarbone, shattered his control.

He needed this woman, had to have her now. He couldn’t wait to initiate her with the slow gentleness she deserved.

Raising himself up, Swift Foot pulled his hips back. Small Bird’s legs spread wider before him. Positioning his shaft at her wet entrance, he fell slightly forward, his weight on his hands. “Hold me. Hold me tight.” He moaned. He had not entered her.

Her arms went around his neck, her legs around his hips. Swift Foot stared down at her. As though embarrassed or afraid, she tried to close her eyes, cutting the bond between them. He stopped her. “Watch,” he said. “See what you do to me?”

She gripped him with her thighs, pulling the tip of him an inch into her. “Show me,” was all she said. “Make me yours, Swift Foot.”

The sound of his name on her lips, the renewed fearlessness in her eyes and the throbbing heat of her left him no choice. With one swift stroke he entered her, tearing through her maidenhead.

Small Bird bit her lip to silence her cry of pain, but she never took her eyes off him. Swift Foot ordered his body to go slowly. To show his wife that he could be gentle. But the violence of the day, the raging fury storming through him, along with years of being forced to maintain control at all times, overpowered him.

His hips surged forward. Then again. And again. Faster and faster. Harder and harder he thrust until his lungs hurt and his body knew of only one thing. He sought release in becoming one with this woman.

Small Bird flinched at the first tearing of her maidenhead, but watching her husband, seeing the veins on his temple and forehead, the look of surprise on his face as he lost control, fascinated her. The sensations of hurt and burning faded with each thrust until she felt something primal clawing within her.

She tried to still it, wanted to watch her husband, needed to see this part of him—but with each of his rapid thrusts, her breathing grew shallower, her head rolled back and her eyes closed. She tried to fight it, to watch him, but she couldn’t.

A wave of need built inside her. It was like a storm. Without ever realizing it, she was raising her hips to meet his thrusts, her moans and soft cries contrasting with the harsh, guttural sounds coming from between his clenched teeth.

Her fingers dug into his back, and she held him tightly. Supported by his arms, he pushed up his torso stretching away from her, their bodies now touching only where they were joined. Cool air rushed between them.

When Swift Foot tossed his head back and let out a moan, Small Bird gasped and held her breath. For one heartbeat she stared at him; then she felt him shudder and saw some unknown emotion take control. Then pleasure overcame her. Her body stiffened, her head rolled back and her eyes closed. With one last deep thrust, Swift Foot sent her spiraling from her body into ecstasy.

Her lower limbs tightened as she convulsed around her husband’s throbbing member; her body pulled him to her, held him inside. Flashes of light brighter than any star exploded in her brain as the world fell away beneath her.

Floating, exhausted, but incredibly satisfied. Small Bird lay still, her eyes closed, trying to find words to describe the wondrous experience that had just occurred. Swift Foot slumped down, his body blanketing hers, protecting it. Around them, cool air swept over their sweat-drenched bodies.

“That was…” Small Bird shook her head. How did one put into words the experience of leaving one’s body to float through the heavens?

Swift Foot lifted his head and stared down into her face. “Unforgivable. I took you with no tenderness. No consideration. I caused you pain.”

Small Bird trailed her fingers down the side of his cheek, careful not to touch the bruised and scraped flesh there. “You are wrong, my husband. I gave myself to you. I wanted no false emotion or feeling. Yes, there was pain, but it was the most wonderful experience I’ve ever had.” She paused, feeling suddenly shy.

“I flew,” she said at last.

Swift Foot lowered his forehead to hers. “We flew together.”

Remembering the lines etched in his features, the concentration, she traced the side of his face and asked, “Did it cause you pain?”

Swift Foot chuckled. “Once I took your maidenhead, did
you
feel pain?” He stared down into her eyes.

Frowning, Small Bird sought to remember. “No. I wouldn’t say it was pain. Yet I needed so badly, it hurt.”

“That is how I felt,” Swift Foot agreed. He marveled. Small Bird had accepted that uncontrolled part of him he revealed to no one—not even Emily. He’d taken his new wife with such violence yet her own response had more than matched his. She had equaled his passion and even encouraged it.

Faced with the knowledge that Small Bird not only accepted the unseen violence and lack of control within him, but encouraged it, Swift Foot paused. He had to think about this. But before he could examine all that had happened, he had to get some distance.

He went to pull out of her, but a surge of renewed desire shot through him at the feel of their slippery congress. Groaning, he slid back into her.

Her eyes widened. “Can we do this again?” she asked. “Can I fly again?”

Grinning, knowing he could not, at least this morning, deny either of them the release they both needed, he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You can fly as many times as you wish, wife. I will lift you.”

Pulling her off of him, he drew her onto his lap. He slipped one finger inside her, then two. Her head rocked from side to side. “I want you,” she said in a gasp. “Fly with me.” As he stroked her, her words slurred.

“I will. But right now you will fly for me.”

Small Bird felt odd as her husband used his fingers to pleasure her. And he watched! She felt his eyes upon her. She should have protested. But while she felt embarrassed, her body surged with the need to fly. She bit her lip, trying to silence her cries of ecstasy.

His fingers slid through her woman’s curls and found the sensitive nub therein. She gasped.

“Do not hold back,” he urged. “Let me hear how much you want this. I need to know you want this.”

His words freed her. Her breathy moans grew. She urged him on, crying out as he sent her higher and higher. His fingers inside her stroked long, hard and fast. The one finger on the bud of her sex circled faster and harder. At last, something touched just the right spot; she burst apart. Her hips jerked and shook. Her back arched and her fingers dug into the ground seeking something to hold.

But she was free. Flying. Soaring among the stars.

Swift Foot entered her quickly. She felt his hot length slide into her, and he groaned as once more her body convulsed around him. The walls of her sex gripped him and urged him to find his own release. He thrust deeply, over and over.

“More,” she said softly. “I can feel it building.” She sobbed beneath him.

The knowledge that she wanted him so much, was responding so completely, sent Swift Foot over the edge. “Yes, fly with me,” he cried out. Then he grabbed her, and slanted his mouth over hers.

“Yes,” she said into his mouth. “Yes.”

And she did fly with him. Together they left the world and their problems to soar as one to the heights of pleasure.

Willow Song sat in her tipi. The continuous wailing and lamenting all around her had released her own sorrow. Though she could take no part in the preparations for the dead, or console the grief-stricken, she felt the grief of each woman, man and child as her own.

Also having just learned from her brother that Small Bird’s father had died, Willow Song especially wished that she had the courage to go and offer words of sympathy to her.

She glanced over at the parfleche she’d made to give to her cousin’s wife. Like most of what she made, it would find no good home but her own. Or maybe her brother would take it to trade the next time trappers were spotted.

Had she been a true Double-Woman Dreamer, her skills at quilling would be revered, sought after for their good medicine—even though the women would still not touch or get close to her. But that was not so. Instead, she lived in a half state. It didn’t matter. She worked for her own satisfaction, not for a sense of worth. With her disfigured body, her worth to anyone except her brother, and perhaps Swift Foot, was less than that of the pups who were often killed for special feasts.

Concentrating on the intricate design of the yoke of a man’s shirt, she tried to blot out the sounds of grief raging around her. At last, when she had had to remove the same quill three times, she set the garment down. Running her fingers over the soft elk skin—it had been tanned until it was thin, supple and soft—she thought how nice it would look on Lone Warrior.

She grimaced. There was as much chance of him accepting a gift from her as of her being made whole again. Even though he’d been kind, she refused to believe he’d actually wear anything she made. Staring out the slight opening of the doorway, she thought of how he’d come upon her, and heard her singing.

He hadn’t been afraid. Hadn’t been repelled or repulsed.

There is beauty in you that none has seen before.

Her hands lifted to her face. One side was smooth and soft, but the other remained rough, covered in scar tissue.

I think I am falling in love with you.

Willow Song felt ill—sick with fear. Lone Warrior hadn’t been serious, could not have meant his words.

Walk with me.

But she had walked with him. And though she’d kept him to her good side, waiting for him to tell her he was playing a horribly sick joke, he hadn’t. They’d walked in silence.

She closed her eyes and tried to smile, ignoring the stiffness of half her mouth. As much as her brother loved her, she knew he couldn’t bear to look upon her ugliness, for it reminded him of their mother’s death. She understood and needed him too much to resent that. As he accepted her flaws, she accepted his.

Outside, the night air felt fresh and soothing. She longed to step out and leave her small enclosure, but even under the cover of darkness she didn’t dare. Not with so much grief ravaging her people. Any who saw might blame her for the deaths of their loved ones.

A sudden cramp in her thigh made her cry out. She stretched her leg and rubbed the knotted muscle. Fear wasn’t the only thing that kept her inside; the long and arduous night of travel had left her muscles screaming in pain and her body weak with fatigue. It would take many days before she recovered. By then they’d likely move camps again, and leave the dead behind.

A sound outside her tipi made her tense. Who was it?

“Hau,”
a low voice spoke.

Willow Song held her breath. Lone Warrior? Here, in the early predawn hours when most were asleep?

“Willow Song. I’ve come to see if you are all right.”

The man’s voice, deep and husky, rich with tenderness, made her shudder. “I am fine,” she whispered, hiding her pain from him. She couldn’t move to the doorway to see, and couldn’t allow him in. She didn’t want him to see her like this.

“Will you come out so that I may speak to you?” he asked.

Tears gathered in her eyes at the concern in his voice. She still feared he played a game—a cruel one that would break her heart and crush her spirit. It seemed no matter what she told herself, she’d started to hope he cared for her.

“No. I cannot. Please go. It is early.” She longed to see him, wanted to offer him sympathy over the loss of his father, but she didn’t dare. His sister was wife to their chief, and he was also an important member of the tribe. There could be no relationship between them.

Why had she forgotten that fact? She tried to scoot over to the doorway to close the flap. She couldn’t allow him to see her again. As soon as she moved, the knot in her leg went into a painful spasm. She cried out, then bit down hard on her lip to silence herself.

Lone Warrior pushed inside. “What is wrong?” he asked. He took one look at her leg, then dropped to his knees. “You are in pain.”

“It is nothing.” She gasped. “It will pass.” Her fingers twitched over her thigh.

“Let me,” Lone Warrior said, moving her hand out of the way.

Willow Song realized two things at once: her head was completely uncovered, and he was about to touch her thigh and the ugly scars caused by the hooves of the horse that had trampled her.

She pulled her hair over her shoulder to hide the ugly side of her face, and reached out a hand to stop him. “Please do not.” She couldn’t bear for him to see so much horror, let alone to touch it. He was so beautiful. So perfect. His long, black hair was parted down the middle and fashioned into two thick braids hanging over his broad shoulders to his gleaming skin. His good health, good looks and sinewy body took her breath away. Her throat clogged with emotion.

He was as perfect as she was marred.

As beautiful as she was ugly.

As strong as she was weak.

He deserved someone whole. A woman he could be proud of. Someone who could walk at his side. Willow Song was not that woman and never would be.

But as he had the other night, Lone Warrior ignored her protests. His hands, warm, firm and gentle, slid her dress up just past her knees. Then he leaned down, putting firm pressure on her thigh. Slowly he worked his way up from her knee, easing the muscles as he went. When his fingers brushed the ridges of her scars, she tensed.

“No. Relax. Let me help,” he said. His voice soothed yet commanded her compliance.

At first his firm massage hurt—as her own clumsy fingers would have. But after a few minutes, magic flowed from his fingers into her thigh. The warmth of his hands and the strength in them were far more potent than had been Willow Song’s attempts to ease her own pain. She relaxed.

As she stared at him, watching his dark, perfect fingers knead her flesh, Willow Song truly feared that she was falling in love. He glanced up at her, and their gazes locked. His hands stilled.

“Soon it will be day. When darkness bathes the land once more, I will come for you. Will you walk with me again?”

Willow Song wanted to shout yes. But fear held her back. She withdrew into herself. “I cannot.”

Lone Warrior lifted her chin with his finger. “Why? Are you afraid of me?”

Slowly, she nodded, for she was. But that wasn’t the only reason she told him no.

He reached out and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I have looked upon your face. Do not hide from me.” He slid his finger down her disfigured cheek. “Please let me come to you tonight. I have need of your company. I mean you no harm.”

Ashamed, she drew a deep breath. “I cannot walk tonight. My…my leg—”

Lone Warrior cursed. He took both her hands in his. “You will not have to walk. I will carry you, and we will find a quiet place to sit.”

The thought of him carrying her made Willow Song blush. “It is not proper,” she protested, even though her heart begged her to accept. His eyes held sadness, anger and need. She responded to his need by lifting one hand to the side of his jaw.

“Are you afraid of what the others will think?” he asked.

“No,” she replied softly. “Of course not. I fear what they will say of you. You are important.”

“And you are not?” he wondered. He held up his hand. “No, do not answer, for what you say will anger me.” He smiled to take the sting from his words. “It is settled, for I care not what others say, or think.” He forced her to lie back, then covered her with a fur, saying, “Now rest.”

He stood, then without giving her a chance to talk him out of returning, he left, giving her no chance to argue.