Candace McCarthy (14 page)

She didn’t move as he undressed. Her flesh throbbed and was infused with fiery warmth as she watched with interest as Fireheart removed his loincloth.

They stood facing each other, naked, unmoving. Fireheart touched her breast, and she closed her eyes in enjoyment of his caress.

When Joanna lifted her eyelashes, it was to see adoration, such awe in his expression as he continued to stroke her that she felt humbled.

He began to fondle both breasts simultaneously, rubbing her nipples until she moaned softly, and arched up into his hands. He bent his head, and tasted first one bud then the other. She stroked his hair as he suckled her. He caught her around the waist, and lowered her to the ground.

His head blocked out the sun as he settled his weight on her form. He shifted to continue his pleasuring of her breasts. Joanna opened her legs, anxious to feel all of him.

Fireheart had waited a long time for this moment. She was sweeter, more responsive then he’d ever imagined. He had loved her as a boy, but now he adored, loved, and desired her as a man.

He was not ignorant of the pleasure points of a woman. He raised himself up from her, and reached down to touch the tiny wet nub between her legs. She gasped, widening her eyes, and he kissed her, pleased that she had never been touched that way by a man.

He would be her first if not her last, he realized. The thought of another man kissing her, loving her, bothered him, and he vowed to put his mark on her. She might lie with someone else, but she would never forget Fireheart ... just as he might marry another, but Joanna would always have his heart.

He slid his finger inside her moist cavern as he nipped on her breasts. Her innocent touches, the way her hands fluttered over his back and down his sides to his hips, incited his desire. Hers were the lightest of inexperienced touches, yet he felt as if she’d known exactly where and how to please him.

He was nearing the breaking point. She was wet and ready for him. He kissed her tenderly as he eased between her thighs, pressing his shaft to her moist opening. He pushed slightly, heard her gasp, and pulled back.

“I will try not to hurt you.” The thought of giving her pain upset him. He wanted her only to experience pleasure, such ecstasy that she would soar....

“Please,” she begged, urging him with her hands on his hips. “ ’Tis all right. I’ll be fine. Please . . . love me.”

She didn’t have to ask for his love. She already had it although he had a feeling that she didn’t believe herself worthy of such devotion.

. So he set out to prove it to her. He entered her with one thrust. Then, when she had adjusted herself around him, he began to move. Sliding in and out of her moist warmth, he held himself back. He wanted her to climax first, then he would pleasure her again before he found his release.

But in her innocence, she grabbed hold of his buttocks. She squeezed his cheeks, urging him on with soft words until he was hot and throbbing and gritting his teeth with the pain of holding back his climax.

She kissed him with her soft mouth, nibbled on his ear, ran her hands down his back, then clutching his buttocks again, she arched up and tightened herself around him.

“No!” he groaned. He was losing himself in her.

“Yes,” she cried, embracing him tightly.

Joanna gasped and stiffened as sensation pooled in her breasts and between her thighs. She lifted her head and buried her face in his neck, then on impulse she ran her fingers down over his thighs. She heard his harsh groan, and her pleasure intensified. Soon she was clinging to him and spiraling high in a world of delight unlike anything she’d ever experienced before.

Fireheart,
she thought as he joined her in her world of sensual ecstasy.

“Joanna,” he rasped as he finally found his release.

They lay close, touching as their hearts slowed and their breathing eased. Joanna rolled onto her belly, and unable to resist caressing her, Fireheart stroked her back. Her skin was smooth and soft and very white. He studied the darkness of his hand against her pale back and enjoyed the difference. She was soft where he was hard. She was smooth where he was rough.

If only he could make her stay . . . he would marry her and make her his forever. She could be happy in the village; she had been before. Why not again?

Yet he knew she had changed. Something was different about her. There was much he didn’t know about her life in England. She had suffered there. He wanted to know what had put that sadness in her beautiful green eyes.

He rose up on his elbow, and ran his hand over her buttocks to her legs. He saw tiny thin lines across the back of her thighs.
Scars,
he realized and frowned.

“What are these?” he asked softly, rubbing them gently with his fingers.

He felt her stiffen. “Nothing.”

He became alert to her inner pain. “Where did you get them?” he pushed.

She rolled over, and scrambled to her knees. “It doesn’t matter.”

He caught her chin firmly, but not hurting. “Joanna, who hurt you?”

She pulled away, averted her glance, but not before he saw the tears glistening in her lovely green gaze.

“Why?” she asked. “Why do you want to know?” He touched her cheek, then drew her gently to face him. “Someone hurt you,” he said softly. “I do not like it that someone hurt you.” He leaned in to briefly kiss her mouth. “Who did this to you?” His voice was soft, but he was seething inside toward the person responsible.

She shuddered, and hugged herself with her arms. “My uncle.”

Joanna didn’t look at him, afraid that he would guess the truth, that she wasn’t the woman he thought she was. She was unlovely and unlovable. Fireheart had made her forget for a little while, but now . . .

He was silent for so long that she was afraid to meet his gaze. “Your uncle hit you?”

She nodded, but still didn’t look.

“With what?”

She whispered her response. “A riding crop.” Then, in a halting voice, she explained what that was and what her uncle had done.

His fury building toward her uncle, Fireheart mumbled an Indian curse beneath his breath.

She glanced at him. Seeing his anger, she cringed away from him until she realized by the way he was stroking her bare arm that his anger was directed at the pain she’d suffered, not at her.

“Your uncle beat you,” he repeated.

She closed her eyes in shame. “Yes.”

“Why?” Fireheart was furious. How could the man have hurt Joanna?

He could sense that she didn’t want to tell him.

“Autumn Wind,” he said gently. “Tell me.”

“He didn’t like me to have Lenape things.” Rage burned in his breast, threatening to erupt. “You wore your tunic, the one Little Blossom’s mother made for you?” he asked gently.

She was surprised that he’d remembered. “Yes. First, he was angry because I wore my tunic. I loved that dress,” she added, sounding like a child. She shied away from his glance. “Then it was my moccasins.” She gave a soft sob and hugged herself tighter.

Fireheart pulled her arms away from her body and tugged her close. “Don’t cry,
Kitehi,”
he murmured, feeling her pain.

She snuggled against him, her lips against his breast. “He was a hateful man,” she said, pulling away slightly. “I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t.” She shuddered within his arms.

“The one time I tried to escape him I was punished,” she continued. She held up her arm and he saw a tiny scar near her wrist. “He hit me. He wore a ring on his hand . . . it cut me. I wasn’t hurt as much as I was shocked by his cruelty.”

As she felt the comfort of Fireheart’s arms, Joanna didn’t elaborate on Roderick Neville’s cruelties. She could feel the tautness of Fireheart’s muscles. He was angry and upset. Why shouldn’t he be? She withdrew from his embrace.

He would be wondering about her, thinking her a horrible person for driving her uncle to punish her so severely.

She reached for Fireheart again and clung. “I’m sorry.”

His arms closed about her. He was silent, but he continued to hold her so she took comfort in his nearness, his gentle embrace.

Still hugging her, Fireheart eased her to the ground. They lay together, unmoving except for his stroking her back and lower. She closed her eyes and enjoyed it all ... his tenderness, his touch . . . his soothing whispers.

She would remember these moments always, she thought. They would warm her during the long cold lonely nights back in England.

She slept for a time, and Fireheart realized he must have dozed, too. When he woke up, he watched her sleep. He studied Joanna for a long time, frowning. She lay on her side with her back facing him. He eyed the long expanse of soft skin and feminine curves from her smooth back down her spine to her buttocks and lower.

She had lived through an ordeal greater than what she had confided in him, he suspected. He sat up, saw her leg scars, and bent his head to tenderly kiss each one. Joanna stirred and rolled over. Catching sight of him, she smiled and held out her arms.

“Fireheart,” she murmured.

He returned her smile, then flowed into her arms.

They made love again, slowly, as if each wanted to savor every moment. When they were done, they fell asleep until a wild cry from the distance jerked Fireheart from a sound sleep.

He experienced a terrible sense of foreboding.

 

 

Wild Squirrel was dead. Joanna listened in numbed shock as her cousin told her of the beloved
sachem’
s death.

“He went quietly,” Mary said. “Stormy Wind was with him. He was happy and at peace.”

As the pain of loss hit her hard, she studied the villagers gathered in the yard for the news. Little Blossom, her face lined with sorrow, stood holding her daughter Water Flower. Her husband Broken Bow stood at her friend’s side, his arm around his young wife’s shoulders.

Woman with Eyes of Hawk’s eyes were red as if she’d been crying although her face was stoic while the matron Red Dress, Moon Dove, the maiden’s brother White Cat, and her mother Berry Tree stared vacantly ahead.

Joanna had returned to the New World because of Wild Squirrel. The man was the grandfather she’d never known. He’d treated her kindly when as a child she’d visited him, asking endless questions that would have tried the most patient man.

But not Wild Squirrel,
she thought with sorrow. He had enjoyed Joanna’s visits, and she had loved him fiercely. Now the
sachem
was dead, and Joanna had again lost someone she loved.

When the cry had come, Fireheart and Joanna had returned to the village separately. Fireheart had raced on ahead, and Joanna had lagged behind, bringing the puppy. The sense that something was wrong had hit them both while they were still in the forest clearing, stealing away the joy of the hours they’d spent together making love.

Suddenly, they were again two people destined to be apart. Strangers.

While still holding the puppy, Joanna searched for Fireheart and found him standing among a group of Lenape men. He didn’t look like the lover she’d lain with only a short time ago. That man had worn a carefree look and a smile that was almost boyish. The warrior she saw now bore the weight of his new responsibilities heavily. Wild Squirrel was dead. Fireheart was the new chief.

Tears filled her eyes as she studied him. He’d been so tender, so wonderful. She willed him to look her way, then when he did, she wished she hadn’t. His glance at her was brief, unemotional . . . like a stranger’s.

Joanna stroked the puppy absently until the animal whimpered and wanted to be put down. She hugged him to her chin briefly, taking comfort in the dog’s fur and warmth. Then she released him with a last pat, setting him carefully on his feet. She watched as he scurried off to comfort one of the children.

She stood and glanced in Fireheart’s direction. He met her gaze briefly again, unemotionally, before he turned away to continue his conversation with the men.

There would be much to do, Joanna realized with an aching heart. Preparations for the funeral ceremony would begin immediately, she thought.

Joanna knew that she would stay until the funeral ceremony was over even if Mortimer Grace arrived today to take her away. She hoped that the guide would come by the time the ceremony was done, if not before. Once Mr. Grace came, she could pack up her belongings, and leave the Indian village and the pain. She didn’t think she could bear more heartbreak. Wild Squirrel had been ill a long while. He had seemed much better. Why couldn’t he have lived?

He had known,
she realized.
He had known his time left in this world was short, but no one, especially me, wanted to believe it.

“Joanna.” She felt Mary’s arm surround her shoulders.

Joanna glanced at her cousin with tears in her eyes. “I loved him.”

Her throat worked as Mary shared her grief. “I know you did,” she whispered. “That’s why I wrote you. I thought that you would be interested in news about our chief.”

“He seemed better, didn’t he?” Joanna said, her voice thick with tears.

Mary nodded. “He did. Stormy Wind had said that his appetite had returned, and you saw him up and about.” Her expression darkened. “Things seemed to change after the attack—”

Joanna agreed. After the Cayugas raided the village, Wild Squirrel had seemed older, frailer. And in less than a full day he was dead.
It isn’t fair!
she thought.

“I know,” Mary said, hugging Joanna, making her realize that she must have cried it out loud.

“How can I help?” Joanna wanted to assist in the funeral ceremony.

“There will be food to prepare,” her cousin murmured. “Let me ask Woman with Eyes of Hawk.”

 

 

“We are here,” Gillian said, stating the obvious. “Now what shall we do?”

Ignoring her, John studied the milling crowd near the dock.

“John?”

He looked at her then. “Oh, we find someone to take us into Indian Territory,” he said.

She shivered. “Won’t that be dangerous?”

“Undoubtedly,” he said with impatience. “Gillian, you know why I had to come. Did you think I’d check into a hotel, and wait for someone to bring Joanna to me?”

“I—” She bit her lip. “I guess I didn’t really think about it.”

He scowled. “Would you like to go home?”

She thought of the terrible ship’s voyage they’d just endured, and she pulled herself together. “No, no, I’ll be fine.” She touched his cheek, and made an effort to smile. The only good thing about the voyage was that she’d been with John. “I’ll go wherever you go. It will be interesting to see the wilderness.”

John knew she was lying, but his expression softened. She might try his patience at times, but he was glad she’d come. The journey would have been lonely without her.

He glanced back and saw a fellow who wore fine clothes. “I’ll wager that bloke knows whom I should hire.” Capturing Gillian’s arm, he started in the man’s direction.

“But, John, what about our belongings!” Gillian cried.

“I’ve already arranged for them to be sent to an inn,” he said. He flashed her a lascivious grin. “I never said we wouldn’t be spending any nights in comfort.”

 

 

The scent of roasting meat filled the air as the Lenape women prepared the food necessary for the funeral ceremony for Wild Squirrel. In the wigwam of the
sachem,
the body of Wild Squirrel was laid out and being mourned by a group of village matrons who wailed over the body loudly. Stormy Wind, the chief’s wife, had already donned the garb of a mourning widow. She had chopped off her hair until it stood in short spikes over her head. An old ragged buckskin had replaced her lovely doeskin kilt. She had discarded her beads and ornamental jewelry, and scrubbed her face free from any vermilion and face powder frequently used by the Lenni Lenape women.

Joanna entered the wigwam to pay her respects as was the English custom. She had seen a Lenape funeral before, but she’d been young and she remembered little.

Her gaze went first to the women keening a mournful song in the room, then to the chief lying upon his sleeping pallet. She had put on her tunic and tied back her blonde hair. Head bowed, she approached the bed to silently acknowledge and pray for the deceased man, her grandfather.

As the women continued to chant and sing, Joanna finished her prayer, and then met Stormy Wind’s gaze. The woman’s expression was stoic. Joanna knew, though, that for Stormy Wind to cry, moan, or show emotion of any kind would incite the others’ ridicule. The widow of the deceased must show her grief in the ways of the Lenape ... like the cutting of her hair, the discarding of fancy garb, and painting her face black. Later, once Wild Squirrel was buried, Stormy Wind would be allowed to go and weep over his grave in private.

Joanna wanted to go to her, hug her, tell her how sorry she was for the loss of her husband, but this wasn’t the time or the place to do it.

She stayed a short while, then left with the intention of offering her help where needed. She headed toward the fields where she was sure she’d find Mary harvesting vegetables for the feast.

Word had been sent to the surrounding Lenape villages. Wild Squirrel’s death would bring many guests, many chiefs, to pay their respects to the deceased’s family.

As she left the village for the forest, she wondered where Wild Squirrel would be laid to rest. It would be a place far from the village, a secluded place, a beautiful setting where a man who was loved would find his final resting ground.