White Flame (17 page)

Her own behavior from the minute she’d seen him that night appalled her. What had happened to the proper lady she’d once been? Aunt Ida would roll over in her grave if she could see Emma now. Where was this rebellion and temper coming from? She was a lady. Ladies didn’t give in to fits of anger or try to start battles with the opposite sex. Or kiss and be kissed senseless under a wild canopy of stars.

But out here, far from proper society, it seemed as though she’d lost the ability to act like a lady. She licked her lips, confused by the churning emotions coursing through her. And when his lips lowered and stopped a mere breath from hers, she knew the need to be touched, held and loved was stronger. She didn’t protest when he wound his hands roughly in her hair and forced her to look at him.

“You belong to me. No one else.” He held her face tenderly.

His mouth played with hers, coaxed and teased her. There was no one else. Just him. She moaned, moved her lips against his, met him kiss for kiss. His hands shifted to either side of her head; hers slid over the whipcord strength of his shoulders. On fire, Emma burned for more as he roused a deeper response from her.

Her hands roamed his body, and her hips, driven by a pulsing need deep within, moved restlessly, brushing against his hardened sex. His fingers trailed down her back and pressed her firmly back against him. Heat, intense and driving, filled her. His hips rotated against hers.

Harsh moans filled the air. His? Hers? She didn’t know, didn’t care. She ached with a need unlike anything she’d ever felt before. And when he pulled back, she protested.

Striking Thunder throbbed with the desire to bury himself deep inside her. Holding himself back, he trailed his lips downward and lowered them to the damp barren ground. Taking the fur robe she’d worn over her shoulders to ward off the chill, he spread it beneath them then stretched out next to her with one leg slung over hers.

Tenderly, he feathered his fingers over her breasts and down her flat belly. Watching her, he learned the shape of her as he followed the contours of her body over gentle curves and dipping down into flat valleys.

Leaning over her, his hard chest pillowed by the soft swells of her breasts, he caressed the side of her face with one hand. She turned her head into his embrace with a deep sigh of surrender. The soft breathy sound nearly broke his control. He longed to move over her and join himself to her. But he waited. Watching Emma as she experienced each new step of the mating act held him enthralled.

Holding her wide and wondering gaze with his, he used his knee to nudge her legs apart. Her eyes widened and she stiffened slightly. He lowered his head to reclaim her mouth. When he felt her relax, he pressed his thigh against her woman’s mound. With a startled cry, her hips jerked off the ground but she didn’t stop him. He slid his other hand beneath her dress, which had ridden high up one soft, slender thigh.
“Kopegla sni yo.”

Emma shuddered when she felt his fingers caressing the inside of her thigh where her leggings were tied, high beneath her skirt.

In English, he said, “Don’t be afraid.” But she was. Something was happening to her when he touched her. It didn’t hurt, exactly, yet she was filled with an odd ache. A pleasant one, though. Unable to stop it, and not wanting to, her arms tightened around his neck, slid down his shoulders and skimmed over his back. With each gasping breath, her breasts lifted and pressed into his chest, igniting every nerve with soul-searing heat. As soft as her dress was, the material abraded her sensitive nipples.

Incredible, never-before-felt sensations filled Emma as Striking Thunder stroked her in
slow, tender circles, moving up her thigh to that place that ached worse even than her breasts, which felt heavy and swollen. She shifted. A tendril of cool air brushed against her legs when Striking Thunder pushed her dress higher.

Her body felt on fire and only he could offer her cooling relief. When his lips moved to her throat, she threw her head back. Overhead, stars twinkled down at them and the flow of the river added a sweet whisper of background music. The night darkened and lengthened. But for Emma, there was only now. Him. This. Her eyes closed on the wonder of it.

He murmured something against her throat. Though she didn’t understand, her body responded to the tenderness of it, and when his fingers inched higher, parting her, exposing that hidden core, she shied away from his touch and the intense pleasure-pain he brought her. Fear burned the edges of the fog surrounding her. Her eyes flew open and her lips parted in a protest that died as a hoarse whimper.

He touched her there again. “Shh, relax. Let me give you release.”

Emma had no idea what he meant, didn’t need to. When his palm pressed hard against that moist area, he ignited an intense pulsing deep in her center. Her hands fluttered toward him, unsure if she meant to push him away or pull him closer.

He grabbed one hand and kissed her palm, her wrist. Her other hand fell uselessly back to her side. Her fingers dug deep furrows into the thick fur beneath her. Lifting her hips, she rolled her head from side to side. “Please. I—I’m not sure—” Each time she thrust upward, touched him, something snapped. It made thought, speech impossible. Oh, God, she wanted his touch, harder.

Gently, Striking Thunder kissed her while his fingers circled her swollen flesh, until she thought she’d surely die from the intense pleasure. Then he removed his hand but before she could protest, he slid one finger lower, parting her further. She gasped when he slipped inside. In, out, and using his thumb, he circled her throbbing heart, playing her until she thought she’d burst with the pleasure of it.

Her head rolled back, emphasizing the white column of her throat. His mouth took up her invitation, his teeth nipping the taut skin, his tongue trailing a heated path from jaw to collarbone. The sensations, so many, so incredible, left Emma shaking and wanting. More, lots more. Her back arched and her legs shifted, stiffened, then trembled as she sought something, just out of reach. His finger delved deeper, pressing upward inside her at the same time his thumb pressed down. He increased the rotation across that overly sensitive, previously hidden and untouched flowering bud.

He swallowed her soft cries and just when she thought she couldn’t take any more, she came apart in an explosion of incredible pleasure. Jewel-bright colors dazzled her and carried her upward to mingle with the glittering diamonds sitting in the night sky, just waiting to be plucked before she fell back to the earth.

Captivated by Emma’s passionate surrender, Striking Thunder felt awed by the look of wonder on her face. He smiled, and though his own desire throbbed painfully, witnessing her release held a sweetness of its own. Holding her close, the rapt pleasure on her face fascinated him. Never had he seen a woman lose herself so completely. More than anything, he wanted to lose himself in her passionate embrace and follow her lead. Their coupling would be wild and uncontrolled.

Without conscious thought, his fingers combed through her mound of red curls in a soothing fashion then trailed upward beneath her dress to caress the soft, white skin of her flat belly. Her ragged gasps slowed and her soft sighs mingled with his harsher breaths as his body burned hotter with need.

Emma turned to him, lifted a hand to cup his jaw. “I never knew it could be so wonderful between a man and a woman.”

Striking Thunder ached. Neither had he. Not like this with just him giving the pleasure. He and Meadowlark had never taken turns so that each could witness the other’s passion. Their matings had been just that. She’d wanted to bear him children. He’d wanted children. It was all part of life’s circle. Everything was a circle. A bird’s nest. His tipi. The sun and the moon. Life was a circle.

To his dismay, the passion he’d shared with Emma made it increasingly clear that he needed what she offered. She was part of his life circle. And until this moment of truth, Striking Thunder might in time have accepted another arranged marriage and been content with friendship and respect, as fulfillment of that never-ending circle—but not now. That would never be enough. He frowned. Why was he thinking about love? There was more to life and marriage than love. Mutual respect and affection formed a satisfactory alliance.

Passion wasn’t wise. Passion led to loss of control, which was something he demanded of himself. The knowledge that he wanted nothing more than to claim this woman as his own at whatever cost to himself made him roll away. To rebuild the barriers between them, and to deny himself the trembling in his limbs and the burning need in his heart for her touch, he stood, his voice harsh. “I warn you now, white woman. Do not challenge me again or you will bear the consequences.”

With regret he watched Emma’s gaze widen and the remnants of passion flee from her soft, green gaze. “Next time you want me to kiss you, just say so. No need to challenge me.” His gaze dipped. “Subduing that stubborn streak of yours is a pleasant diversion, but I’d prefer not to have others witness our loving. Next time, come to my tipi. It’s a much more private place.”

He ignored the twinge of guilt at the brief flash of pain that swept across her features as she scrambled to her feet and straightened her dress. But again, she surprised him. No tears fell from those moist, wide eyes.

Instead, she thrust her stubborn chin at him. “You have an overinflated sense of self, Striking Thunder. There won’t be a next time.”

Striking Thunder reached out and pulled her to him, his lips covering hers in a hard, demanding show of mastery. When her lips softened on a moan, he released her with a self-satisfied grin. “You lie, white woman. This warrior can lay claim to your body anytime. It doesn’t lie.”

To himself, he admitted that if she were to take him at his word and come to him and demand he finish what he’d started, he wouldn’t be able to refuse her or himself. To his immense relief, she only glared at him. He pointed toward the tipis behind them,
“Iyunka yo!
Go to bed. You’ve wasted enough of my time this night.”

Emma’s eyes snapped with fury. “That was unbelievably cruel, Striking Thunder, but what can one expect from someone who goes around kidnapping innocent women and plotting murder?” Defiantly, she stalked away, then turned, purposely eyeing the swollen ridge of flesh beneath his breechclout. “And you certainly didn’t think I was wasting your time a few minutes ago.”

Her words struck Striking Thunder right where it still hurt. Though he yearned to bring her back and finish what he’d started, he didn’t. Instead, he followed and made sure she returned to his sister’s tipi without mishap. Then he went to his own lodging. He didn’t need her. He could find his own release.

But just inside the door, he froze, his eyes traveling around the interior. The fire still burned, the embers hot when they should have died down long ago. He sensed he wasn’t alone. His hand dropped, ready to grab his knife until he spotted his late-night visitor in his bed. “What are you doing here, Tanagila?”

The young maiden sat up. Furs from his bed covered her shoulders, but didn’t hide the fact that she wore nothing beneath them. “I am here to give myself to you. It is my duty to care for you, to see to your needs.”

Striking Thunder entered. Though he was swollen and ready, the sight of her did nothing to him. The burning need cooled. “Return to your father’s tipi. I have no needs to be attended to this night.”

Tanagila stood, unashamed of her nakedness. Her eyes fell to his breechclout and the erection he could not hide. “I offer myself to you in place of my sister. I am healthy and will bear you many strong sons and daughters. It is only right that a great chief such as you have a wife and family. Is this not the way of our people?’

Holding the flap open, he motioned for his unwanted visitor to leave. Wearily, he shook his head to take the sting from his words. “I have no desire to take a wife at this time. Leave and do not come back uninvited.”

The young maiden bowed her head, hiding her expression as she scooped up her clothes, slid her dress over her head, then walked out without a word. Dropping the hide door, Striking Thunder rubbed the back of his neck.
Women.
They caused too much trouble. Tanagila he could handle. She was young and thought she was in love with him, but Striking Thunder knew about Tatankaota and how the other warrior felt. Tatankaota would make a good husband for her if he had the patience to win her heart.

Emma was another matter. He couldn’t deny his attraction to her, nor his desire to have her. He frowned. Not just desire. She captivated him. And not just her body. Everything about her drew him. Her insight into his people, her courage, her loyalty and yes, her beauty.

Just thinking about her soft body pressed against his made him tremble. Hearing in his mind her soft cries and gasps made him break out in a sweat. Recalling her face, and remembering her lying there, with the moonlight bathing her; watching her as she found her release; all haunted him. Emotions crowded into his mind and needs—his own—gripped his heart. He feared her passion—and his need for it—more than any warring tribe.

“No!” He would not give in. Striking Thunder left his tipi and took off running to rid himself of his restlessness. When he returned tired and wet from bathing in the river, he went and gathered some supplies, ready to leave at first light. He had to leave to put her and this madness in perspective, to see it for what it was—a weakness, a test he could and would overcome. Stretching out on his pallet, unable to sleep, he watched the night pass through the open top of his tipi and admitted that for the first time in his life, he was running away.

With the cold wind sweeping across the bleak prairie, Emma welcomed the bitter chill to drive the heat of desire from her veins. She drove herself relentlessly, doing her best to keep so busy that she couldn’t think about Striking Thunder or what had passed between them the night before. Just remembering it left her embarrassed beyond words.

Taking two full waterskins to an elderly couple, she made sure they had enough wood for their fire and allowed them to feed her, knowing her company meant as much as her help, even though they spoke little to one another. After caring for her aunt for so long, it seemed perfectly natural for Emma to turn to those who needed assistance but would not ask.

By afternoon, tired from lack of sleep and from pushing herself just to keep occupied, she agreed to show Morning Moon and several other girls how to draw with her makeshift charcoal pencils. The Indians weren’t the only ones who could improvise and make do with what nature provided. To her surprise, Morning Moon caught on quickly, grasping the concept of light and shadows and depth. Rather than tackle something simple such as a tipi like her young friends, the girl had insisted on drawing a portrait of a young girl.

Star joined them and, while Morning Moon and her friends drew, she and Emma started grinding dried strips of buffalo into a fine powder, which would later be mixed with ground cherries and fat. But even between the girls’ requests for help and the wrist and backbreaking work of pounding the meat, Emma wasn’t able to put Striking Thunder from her mind for long.

Pounding stone against stone, she sent chunks of meat flying. She didn’t want to remember what had passed between them and she certainly did not want to dwell on the incredible pleasure he’d given her. Yet guilt wavered with the desire to experience his wondrous touch again. He’d been so tender and considerate, a side she’d seldom seen in him. She picked up the chunk of meat, brushed it off, then pounded it, ignoring Star Dreamer’s questioning look.

What happened last night should never have happened.
Not only weren’t they married, but she was his captive, his prisoner. She needed to concentrate her energies on getting free so she could start her search for Renny. She blanked her mind, tried to focus on her goal and remember who and what she was. She was Emma O’Brien, a white woman. She didn’t belong out in this wilderness. Her place was back in St Louis with her sister. So why was she fantasizing about a handsome warrior when she had no business longing for such things? But no matter what she said to herself, her body refused to acknowledge the social and circumstantial differences between herself and Striking Thunder.

Her fingers stilled. What would her world be like once she returned? Staring down at the brownish-red crumbs in her stone bowl, she tried visualizing her former life. Somehow, after the daily freedoms from the censoring eyes of white society, Emma wasn’t as eager as she’d once been to return to days filled with so many rules.

Star poured her powdered meat and cherries into a pouch. Emma added her own ground mixture to Star’s and set her stone bowl down. She shook out her aching wrists then helped Star add melted lard to it. After mixing it, Star took the cooling pemmican to the tipi. Alone, Emma glanced around, searching for Striking Thunder among the incoming warriors.

“Emma, did I do this right? I want to draw your sister.”

With a suppressed sigh, Emma turned her attention to Morning Moon and her sketch. Her breath caught in her throat. While the drawing was rough and quite crude, Morning Moon had drawn a pair of wide eyes in a hauntingly familiar-shaped face. While none of the other features were true to life, the eyes—

Oh, God. She pressed a hand to her throat and stared at Renny’s eyes. The shape, the wide-eyed intelligence and the mischievousness were all there and made Emma want to weep.
But she didn’t want to frighten Morning Moon.

She smiled weakly. “You did an excellent job.” Taking the stick from Morning Moon, Emma added a couple of lines and rubbed the charcoal in, shading them to give the drawing depth. “There.”

Morning Moon closed her eyes then nodded. “Yes. That’s better.” Then she frowned. “I can’t seem to get the nose or mouth right. I can’t see them so good.”

Emma couldn’t help but wonder what the child meant. Morning Moon couldn’t know what Renny looked like—unless she’d used Emma as her model in the assumption that the sisters looked alike. That was the only scenario that made any kind of sense. Though Renny favored their mother and she their father, there was enough resemblance between them that the relationship was obvious.

Tweaking one of Morning Moon’s black braids, Emma hugged the girl. “Do not be in such a hurry. It takes time and lots of practice to be able to draw people.” The girl nodded then ran off to join her friends. Star rejoined her and together, they started in on the evening meal. After a few minutes, Emma glanced around again. Still no sign of Striking Thunder. And though she told herself it was good, that she didn’t need or want to see him, she missed his arrogant presence.

“My brother has gone.”

Startled, Emma eyed Star. She didn’t bother pretending not to know to whom the other woman referred. “Gone? Where?”

Shrugging, Star used a forked stick to remove a hot stone from the fire pit. She dropped it into the pouch of water hanging from the cook-fire tripod. Their method of heating water without the use of pots still amazed Emma. She eyed the stomach lining of a buffalo, which served as their container. It was clever, yet disgusting—especially as someone would eat the pouch after the meal was served from it. “I do not know. Our warriors often go off alone, sometimes for many days.” Her gaze sharpened on Emma’s. “You were out late last night.”

Emma felt her skin flush. She glanced down at her trembling hands. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk.”

Worry lined Star’s forehead. She leaned forward. “You must be careful. Do not go far.”

“I know. Your brother informed me.”

At that, Star lifted a brow. “And when did he tell you this? Last night?”

Remembering all that had happened between them, Emma flushed. “Yes. He followed and explained the dangers, making his point.” Her mood darkened when she recalled his method of proving he spoke the truth. Glancing at Star, she frowned at the look the woman wore.

“I think he did more than talk to you last night.”

Emma narrowed her eyes, glad the other women had gone off to tend to their families.

“What makes you think that?”

Star reached out and ran the tip of a finger along each cheek and the flush staining her still-pale skin. “This.”

Horribly embarrassed, Emma crushed the dried herbs and added them to the simmering water, keeping her back to Star. “Well, I’m glad he’s gone and I hope he stays away.”

“He’s confused.”

Emma snorted. “He’s arrogant and insufferable.”

After considering Emma’s words, Star agreed and added some white roots to the stew. “Yes. He is. But you must understand why. He has great responsibility as our chief. My brother has always taken that responsibility seriously, putting duty above even his own needs. He has yet
to find balance. You will help him.”