Cherokee Storm (4 page)

He trailed slow caresses to the hollow of her throat and lower still, until she felt her nipples harden to tight buds and heat throb at the apex of thighs. “Shan-non,” he whispered. “My woman. Do you know how long I have waited for you?”

Wherever his lips touched, she came alive. Her skin tingled, and blood coursed through her veins. He raised his head, bringing his mouth to hers, tracing her bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, making her open to receive his kiss. His lips were firm and smooth, his tongue as soft as velvet, his breath sweet as orchard honey.

She groaned softly as their kiss deepened and she grew light-headed with the sheer joy of it. His fingertips moved over her throat and bare shoulder, caressing. Long fingers massaged and stroked her naked skin, moving down until he found a breast and cupped it in his hand.

She realized then that her legs and feet were muscle and bone once more. She could have fled, but she no longer wanted to…not when his thumb circled and teased her nipple until the aching grew to a pulsing need. And not when he lowered his head and drew the hot bud between his lips and suckled until she screamed with pleasure.

He'd drawn her tight against the length of his naked body, and she'd felt the heat and length of his swollen phallus. They'd stood there, skin to skin, lips to lips, his long hair wrapped around them for what seemed forever, before she caught one of his hands in hers and moved it to touch her in her most intimate place.

Abruptly, the dream changed, and she was running through a black forest. Undergrowth tangled around her legs and slowed her wild dash. Storm Dancer was running too. She could hear his feet hitting the ground, but she didn't know if she was running toward him or away from him. Her heart raced, and she screamed as the vines entrapped her.

Shannon closed her eyes, ashamed of her thoughts, not wanting her father to read what might be revealed there. Where had such shameful fantasies come from? She'd kissed boys, certainly, enjoyed it, but she'd never allowed herself to be touched…never willingly let a man touch her breast or took pleasure in it. She knew what happened in the sex act between a man and woman. No girl who'd served at a tavern could help but see the acts of raw lust or playful coupling. She'd had her share of slaps on her bottom or pinches from over-friendly customers, but she'd objected violently to being touched against her will.

How could she conceive of such shocking behavior with a man? With a Cherokee? With Storm Dancer? She tightened her hands into fists and tried to ignore the damp heat between her legs, proof that the dream had excited her in ways that made her blush.

“Are you all right, darlin'? You gave me a fright.”

“Yes, yes.” She got to her feet. “I'm fine, really.” She was fully dressed in her one spare dress. She'd taken off only her shawl and her shoes before she curled up in the blanket by the fire last night. “Just a bad dream.” She pretended to laugh. “I was caught in a briar patch.”

Her father handed her a cup of tea. “I had Nathan buy me a stock of tea back on the coast. No milk. None in my pack and none back at the post. I don't keep a cow.”

She smiled at him. “I don't mind. I've had all I want of cows. Stupid creatures. And Betty—that's the Clarks' animal—was the most cantankerous I've ever laid eyes on. It was her fault I was caught out at night in the storm.”

He knelt by the fire and spooned out porridge into a bowl. “Eat up. We've a good four hours' ride ahead of us to get home, longer if the river hasn't gone down. I had to ride downstream to a crossing coming to meet you. Cost me nearly half a day. All that rain coming down out of the mountains.”

Shannon reached for the porridge. To her surprise, it was flavored with dried apples, nuts, and cinnamon. “Delicious.”

“I'm glad ye like it. Oona will be pleased.”

She glanced up at him. “Who?”

He concentrated on his cup of tea. “'Tis a surprise I've been meaning to share.”

Now he had her full attention. “Oona?”

“Learning that your mother had passed makes it easier, but I'll not hide the fact that I've taken a companion.”

“A partner? You have a partner?”

“Not exactly.” He stared at his shoes.

Not shoes, Shannon corrected herself. High, fringed leather moccasins with fine beadwork. She'd assumed he'd traded with the Cherokee for them, but Oona was a woman's name.

“When your mother left me, I knew she wasn't coming back,” he said softly. “I'm a man as any other, and I tire of my own company.”

“You've taken a wife?”

“Not exactly,” he hedged. “For I thought I had one, ye see. A sinner I may be, but I do respect the laws of the Holy Church.”

“You live with a woman?” she demanded. “Out of wedlock?” What kind of woman would agree to such an arrangement, she wondered. “Is she Irish?”

“Best you wait until we get home and see for yourself. She's been all aflutter waiting for ye to get here. You'll be the best of friends, I promise.”

She stared at him in disbelief. She'd thought it would be just the two of them, that she'd have all of his attention and love after so long being parted. She hadn't expected to be the outsider again—the stranger in another woman's kitchen.

“Trust me, darlin'. In no time at all you'll love her as I do.”

The sun was directly overhead when Shannon's father stopped to rest on a fallen log. She was footsore and tired from climbing the mountain, but she would have rather bitten her tongue than admit it. She wanted to get home as quickly as possible, and she had no intention of telling him that the used shoes he'd purchased for her from Ada Baker were two sizes too big. Shannon had stuffed leaves in them, but the rough leather had rubbed blisters on her heels that stung with every step she took.

“I should have brought the horses,” he said. “You're not used to so much walking. But the fastest way home is cross-country, rough for the horses—hard on their legs and hooves. I thought we'd make better time on foot.”

“I'm fine, Da, really.”

“Can ye not bring yourself to call me Flynn, as others do?”

“But you're my father. It doesn't seem respectful.”

“It's been so long since we've been together. When you call me Da, I think of you as a child.” Moisture welled in his eyes. “You're far from that, me girl. You're a woman grown. Flynn will do fine.”

“If it pleases you.”

“It does. I've not been a proper father in years, but I'll try to make up for it. I promise.”

“And I'll try to be a good daughter.”

“You've done nothing wrong. The sin, however deep, is my own.”

A comfortable silence settled between them. Overhead a blue jay scolded a circling crow, and Shannon stared up at it. There were so many birds. When she was young, her father had taught her to identify them by their alarm calls and songs. Even now, tired and aching, the sweet music soothed her, and she strained to see glimpses of the different species in the foliage.

Her father…Flynn…offered her a biscuit and dried meat wrapped in corn husks. “It's rabbit,” he explained. “Oona smokes and dries it, then pounds it to flour and mixes it with berries and bear fat. It's a winter staple for the Cherokee.” He supplied the Cherokee word, but no matter how she tried, she couldn't pronounce it correctly.

He chuckled. “It will come back to you. Cherokee is hard. Not so hard as Gaelic, but tough for adults to learn. You spoke both languages when you were a tot. In time you'll remember.”

“Is it important? That I speak Cherokee?”

“If you want to be a help at the trading post. Not many of my customers will admit knowing English. Storm Dancer speaks it and French as well. His uncle sent him north to a mission school. But most Cherokee and Shawnee speak only their own tongue. Cherokee is a kind of poetry. Do you know how many ways they have to describe rain?”

She nodded. “I'll do my best to learn, Da.”

His eyes narrowed. “Flynn.”

“All right. I'll try to remember. I want you to be glad you brought me here. I don't want to be a burden.”

“That could never be. My worry is that I've ruined your chances of a good marriage. There are few prospects for a white woman, even a beautiful one, in these wild mountains.”

“Fewer still back East for an indentured girl at a rough crossroads tavern. Most of the barmaids ended in disgrace with big bellies and no husband. Not that they were wicked, just lonely and unlucky.” Shannon nibbled her lower lip thoughtfully at memories of the indignities she'd had to endure during those years at Klank's. “This is my home. With you. This is where I want to be, where I belong.”

Her father touched her cheek. “Put the bad times behind you, daughter. 'Tis my shame. It's a man's duty to protect his children.”

“It's not your fault,” she protested. “You didn't know—”

“I should have.” His eyes glistened with moisture. “It was selfish of me to bring your mother out here. I should have done better by her. Tried harder to please her.”

A lump rose in Shannon's throat. “She shouldn't have left you.”

“It's just that I never fitted in back there. Never could hold a decent job. Seemed like walls were always closing in on me so that I couldn't breathe. Out here…in these mountains…” He choked up and Shannon dug her grandmother's handkerchief out of her pocket. He blew his nose and then wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “These mountains are the closest to heaven I'll ever get.”

She squeezed his hand. She'd wanted to hug him, but she was suddenly shy. She couldn't remember her father ever crying before. He'd always been strong and hearty, too tough to show emotion. Had the years changed him so much?

“We were never really matched. She came from gentry stock, fallen on hard times, and my own father was an outlaw hanged for stealing a pig.”

“Was he guilty?”

“Guilty as sin, but the pig saved us from starving. It was a bad time. Too much rain ruined the crops. We lost our farm and had to take to the road like tinkers.”

“How old were you?”

“Old enough to watch him hang. But Da said he wasn't sorry. It was worth it.” Pain flickered in his gaze. “He was an unlucky man, but he had a good heart. I'd like to think that the Lord took pity on him, a sinner or not.”

“I'm sure He would.”

Her father nodded thoughtfully. “I hope so.”

“Hadn't we better move on?” she suggested.

“Right you are. It will be easier traveling this afternoon. We go downhill, cross the river, and follow a pass through the mountains. If we don't camp tonight, we can be home by midnight. If you're up to it?” He forced a smile. “You're certain you're all right?”

“Right as rain,” she said.
Hours of walking to go yet?
She groaned inwardly. All she wanted to do was take off these shoes, curl up, and take a nap.

“The thing is, darlin', all that rain. The river was fierce when I came through before. We can save half a day by using the crossing below. And if we walk down the mountain and find it too high to wade or too swift to swim, we've got to climb up again.”

Shannon exhaled softly. Retracing their steps was a dreadful prospect.

“What I'm thinking, is to leave you rest here, go down alone, and take a look-see.”

“Leave me alone?”

“You'll be safe as a nun's soul,” he promised. “See that clump of bushes there? You crawl in out of sight, quiet as a fawn laying low and waiting for its mama.”

She averted her eyes, not wanting him to see how afraid she was to be left behind. “Bears?” she ventured. “Mountain lions?”

Her father chuckled. “This time of year, they're more afraid of you than you are of them. You don't want to walk up on a mama bear, understand? No sense of humor at all when they've got young ones. But you mind your business and old
yona
will do the same. As for the painters—mountain lions—they're shy. Hate the scent of a human. I'd not leave you if I thought harm would come to you.”

She nodded. “All right.” The thought of a rest seemed better and better. If she took off her shoes, the blisters might not hurt so much when they had to go on. “I'll wait here.”

He smiled. “That's my brave girl.”

“You're certain you'll be able to find me again?”

Da's smile became a wide grin. His teeth were still whole and white, the teeth of a much younger man. His smile hadn't changed. “I know this country, darlin',” he assured her. “I haven't been lost in more than ten years. The devil and all his fiends couldn't stop me from coming back for you.”

 

At first, she lay awake straining to hear every sound in the woods, every bird whistle, every chattering squirrel, every insect drone and buzz. She'd been so tired, but once Flynn's erect figure had vanished through the trees, she hadn't been able to hold back her distress.

Suppose that rustle of leaves was a poisonous snake? Weren't there wolves in these mountains? Suppose her father fell and broke his leg and couldn't get back? What would she do if she found herself truly alone?

Gradually, common sense took over. Weariness settled over her like a warm cloak. She unlaced the heavy shoes and pulled them off, sighing with relief. Hadn't her father explained that she was perfectly safe? Didn't he know this country as well as any white man? She would be reasonable and rest as he'd told her. And when he got back, she could continue on without complaining or slowing him down. Her eyelids were heavy. She yawned, laid her head on her arm, and drifted off.

The dream seized her and drew her down.

But they did stop. Abruptly, she could no longer feel his touch.

With a small cry, she opened her eyes. Where was he? Where was her secret lover? Where were the stars and the velvet bowl of night sky? Bright rays of sunlight pierced her hiding spot. She gasped and squinted against the glare. Stunned, she withdrew her hand…fingertips moist from her own inner folds.

No phantom lover…she'd been touching herself…pleasuring herself. Her own fingers had stirred the sexual yearning in her body. Hesitantly, she reached down to rub her swollen flesh. She should have felt shame, but the urge was overpowering.

How many times had she found release in the dark of the night by such action? Better to fulfill her woman's need quietly under the covers in her own bed than to be a man's plaything. If there was sin, she would pay for it. But surely, such a thing was only a small sin.

Tentatively, she stroked the moist button deep inside her woman's folds. It felt so good…so good. But she needed more. She had never known a man, but she could imagine what the act between a man and a woman might be like. Imagined it well, she had to admit to herself, if she was honest. How else could she conceive of the feelings a man might evoke…and not just any man.

Storm Dancer.

Impossible. Her pulse quickened. Her breaths came faster. She gritted her teeth, imagining his hands on her, his voice whispering in her ear, letting her fantasies run wild. And all the while, she continued to massage and stroke her inner flesh until she was rewarded by small spasms of pleasure that spread outward through her body and seemed to resonate through her bones.

She sighed, letting her eyes drift closed in contentment.

“Mary Shan-non, what would your mother say?”

Her eyes snapped open and she cried out. He was here, not a dream lover, but flesh and blood. Shannon clapped her hand over her mouth as Storm Dancer's face and form materialized out of the surrounding foliage.

He was there! Within arm's reach. Spying on her—watching as she…

She scrambled out of her bed of leaves so fast that she tripped and fell headlong into his arms. “You!” she cried. “Why—”

Storm Dancer stood her upright, stepped away, threw back his head, and laughed and laughed until she felt her face grow hot and she smacked him hard in the chest with a balled fist.

“How could you?” she shouted.

Tears of laughter rolled from his eyes and streaked his cheeks.

“Stop it. Stop laughing at me.”

“Such games are for girls,” he managed, between roars of laughter. “Women need more.”

Shame dissolved before anger, and she looked frantically for something to hit him with. All she could find was a pinecone. She threw that as hard as she could. It bounced off his forehead, and he laughed harder. She rushed at him, pounding him with both fists.

He caught her and brought his mouth down to hers. For the briefest instant, it seemed that lightning flashed between them as he moistened her lower lip with his tongue and nibbled it gently. She trembled as he lowered his head and nuzzled her neck.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart crashed against her ribs. Her hands fisted and opened, tightened and opened helplessly. And, somehow, without knowing how or why, she was touching him, running her fingers over satin smooth copper skin, reveling in the heat and hard, rippling muscles.

Time stopped. Black spots danced behind her eyelids. She drew in a great gulp of air, and reason flooded her. What was she doing? How had a dream become real?

“Let me go. Please,” she begged.

“Mary Shannon.”

Her name on his lips turned her bones to butter. “No, this is wrong,” she protested. “I can't…You can't…”

He let her go and stepped back. She stumbled and almost lost her balance. She looked into his eyes…his beautiful dark eyes, and almost plunged into damnation. She could fall into the depths of those eyes…fall and fall forever.

“No,” she repeated stiffly. “My father—”

His bronze chest rose and fell as he drew in air. “Truth Teller should never have left you alone,” he said stiffly. “This is no place for a woman alone. Not a Cherokee woman…not a white woman.”

She backed away, putting distance between them. She fought against the urge to fling herself back into that strong embrace, to catch that red-gold skin between her teeth and taste the salt that must glisten there. She tried to ignore the tingle of her nipples, the sensation that her breasts were swollen and tender, the feeling that she was more alive at this moment than ever in her life. She fought lust as she had never fought it before.

“He will be back,” she said. “Da…my father. If he finds you here—”

“He will be glad that it is me and not another.” Again, Storm Dancer's deep, soft voice sent shivers down her spine.