Gray Hawk's Lady: Blackfoot Warriors, Book 1 (6 page)

Instantly the savage allure of him, a uniqueness that was part American Indian, part male, set her senses to spinning, and Genevieve, unused to such intense sensation, took a deep breath. At once the musky scent in the air engulfed her, making her feel as though she stood in a silken cocoon, and she recognized the pleasant aroma of buckskin and sage…and something else…some other scent not quite…

A candle lay on a table next to her, and she picked it up, lighting the wick of it quickly.

She held up the small flame toward him. She looked into his face, he into her eyes. All at once, Genevieve sucked in her breath.

He was the one.

Their gazes held. Something elusive passed between them, an emotion that Genevieve could hardly explain.

Excitement? Was that it? Excitement combined with what? Fascination?

Puff…

He blew out the candle.

Genevieve let out her breath and closed her eyes, feeling as though she might swoon at any moment. What was happening to her? Why did she suddenly feel so giddy, so light-headed?

She would have to relight the candle, for her own sanity as well as for the more practical reasons. She would have to talk with this Indian. And that required light, since she would have to communicate to him via the Indian sign language she had been learning.

She began to move her hand toward the table when—

“If white woman had only let me know what she wished, she could have obtained what she required from me without abduction. I might have been willing…then—”

“You speak English?”

“Have I not proven just now that I do?”

“But how is that possible?”

The Indian didn’t reply, only looked away, and Genevieve was immediately presented with his profile: strong, foreign, handsome. She drew in her breath as a shiver raced over her skin, and she wondered, was she frightened, or…?

Her breasts swelled against the chiffon material of the gown that she wore beneath her robe, and Genevieve was reminded that she was hardly dressed to receive a man—even if that man was American Indian.

She gazed up at him, and at once a tremor swept over her, bringing with it with an unusual sensation all over her body, especially there in the junction between her legs.

Genevieve shifted her weight uncomfortably. What was happening to her? Why did she feel this way? What was it about this man that brought on excitement, this feeling of…craving?

Briefly she pondered such questions. None of this made any sense.

This man was hardly what she would call a
man,
someone she could physically crave. He was an American Indian—a savage, a person reported by the best authorities to be more animal than human. Such “people” were beneath her. Weren’t they?

Hadn’t the whole of her education so far taught her this? It was true, wasn’t it?

Or was it?

Her body didn’t seem to think so. Her body responded to the Indian as any other twenty-year-old woman might when in the presence of a handsome, half-naked and virile man. Genevieve felt her stomach twist. She whispered, “You are not hurt, are you?”

The Indian swung his gaze back toward her. “Hurt?” he repeated, his stare, or rather his leer, never leaving her. “And where would I feel this hurt? In my heart, which weeps to learn that the white woman has no honor? Or in my spirit, which promises the white woman revenge? Or do you mean my flesh?” He paused. “It is nothing.”

“You
are
hurt!” So that was the other scent she had smelled earlier…blood.

The Indian lifted his chin, and though he stared at her as if she were small quarry he stalked, he said nothing.

“If you are hurt,” she said, “I will attend to your wounds at once.”

“You will not.” The Indian raised his chin another notch. “I will not have your touch upon me. The white woman’s medicine is tainted. I will have a medicine man, if I require anyone at all.” He paused; then, barely over a whisper, he ordered, “Now.”

Lady Genevieve ignored the order. “There is no one else.” Her voice, too, seemed to be strangely quiet, though authoritative.

He raised his wrists, the rope around them halting the movement halfway up. He stared down into her curious gaze. “Release me and I will find a medicine man.”

“I can’t do that,” she murmured. “Where are you hurt?”

The Indian looked away from her as though he could spare no further conversation with her, while she took a dangerous step forward.

“I could help,” she said, her motion bringing her ever closer. “Please believe me. I intend you no harm. Truly.” She gained yet another step in his direction.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t move. He might have been as unmovable as stone.

She paced forward, each step as treacherous as if she were crossing a swift stream.

She gazed up at him, studying him while his attention was diverted. So close was she, she could smell the combination of sweat and blood mixed with the musk-sweet scent of sage. She could see the sweat upon his brow. She lowered her inspection of him to his chest, noting the moisture that covered him there, the blood all over his side. Blood?

She surveyed his chest as best she could while standing here in the dim, silvery light. Vaguely she noted the strong chest and upper-arm muscles, the slim, tapering stomach, the gash to his side…gash? She stared at it. She reached out a hand toward it. “How did you get this?”

She touched his skin above the wound, her fingertips seeking out the warmth of his skin. All at once he shivered, and she had no more than registered the fact when a heated charge tore up her arm.

She pulled her hand back as though to escape, but it was too late. The damage had been done. She was more than aware of him, of his physical, male appeal, and the air fairly crackled with the knowledge.

He swung his attention back toward her, eyeing her as if she were prey rather than a woman of flesh and blood. And though Genevieve knew she should move away from him as far as she could, she couldn’t make her body respond to the command to do so.

Slowly, feeling caught in a trap, she positioned her body closer to his.

“How is it,” he asked, his voice oddly soft, “that the white woman with no honor does not know how I came to be hurt? Was not she the one who commanded this? Was not she the one who wished me into this state? She who wanted to see me again, she who had me practically stripped, she who plans to use me for her own ends?”

“No.”

“White man lies easily. So do his women. Look at me when you deny this so that I might see the truth or lies of your words.”

She sighed, though dutifully she brought her gaze up to meet his. “Truly,” she said after a moment, “I did not know something like this might happen. I only meant to take someone from your tribe for a short while. I would treat them well and return them to the tribe as soon as possible. No injury, no stripping, no degradation. None of that was commanded by me. I’m so very sorry.”

He stared down at her, and Genevieve wondered how it seemed that his head had come so much closer to her own. She looked away.

“Then set me free, white woman of no honor—”

“Do not call me that.” She brought her gaze back to him. “And I cannot let you go. For all that I regret doing this to you, I need you. But I promise you that if you let me attend to you now, there will be no further harm to you.” She was more than aware, as she gazed back up at him, that during her speech his face was no more than a few inches from her.

She should back away. She tried to make herself do it; she couldn’t. His head gradually descended toward her. And her reaction? She leaned in closer.

Then it happened. His head came fully down to hers. She didn’t even have a chance to think before all at once his lips crushed down on hers, and in that moment Genevieve thought her world might surely end.

It was a savage kiss…and yet it wasn’t.

Her stomach twisted in response to him; her limbs refused to move, and she couldn’t think to question why this Indian would be kissing her.

In truth, there were a thousand things she should have done, a hundred things she should have uttered. She neither said nor did any of them. Instead, she stepped in closer toward the Indian, and if anything, he leaned farther down.

The kiss deepened, going from savage to sensual, and Genevieve became unable to think of anything else but those lips on her own, their feel, their warmth, their…arousal. She responded in an odd way, too, as though she had known this man all her life, as though this man were some titled English gent, as though this man belonged to her and she had every right to—

He broke off the kiss, and Lady Genevieve stood still for a moment, not able to move, not able to produce one coherent thought.

She noted that somehow her hands had found their way onto his chest, that somehow she had drawn in even closer to him, that—

“You
see,” the Indian broke into her thoughts, “I was right. This white woman is a woman with no honor.”

She stared at him for several moments. It was a long time before she could speak, and then she only uttered, “Oh!”

She backed up then, but her gaze never left him, and she wondered what she should do. She felt suddenly as though she should return the insult with cutting words of her own or, failing that, at least shove him away. But she did neither.

Glancing down, Lady Genevieve lifted the hem of her dressing gown. Taking one step back, she pivoted away, fleeing the cabin in a fluidity of motion that would have rivaled the swift descent of a hawk, the swish of her dressing gown the only echo of her distress.

But one thought kept coming back to haunt her as she fled down the steamship’s corridor: she had never been more excited in her life.

Not in all of her twenty years so far on this earth had she ever felt more exhilarated, more alive. And she was terribly afraid it all had something to do with the Indian. In truth, she was certain of it.

Chapter Three

It was embarrassing.

That was all it was. Certainly nothing more. To think she had actually allowed that Indian to kiss her. She held her fingertips up to her lips, intent on wiping away the trace of him. But she didn’t. Instead she found herself closing her eyes, remembering the feel of him, the taste of him, the…

She pulled her thoughts up short. What was wrong with her?

She wouldn’t think of it. She wouldn’t allow it. It was embarrassing. That was all. Period.

She paced back and forth within the perimeter of her small quarters on the steamship, her emotions unsettled.

Male—a man…she and Robert had stolen away a man. Never had she imagined that they might take back a male member of the Blackfoot tribe. She’d always reckoned it would be a woman, or mayhap a child. But a man…

What was she to do with him?

She had thought to help her father by starting his studies for him on the journey home, by beginning a communication process with the person, by learning the Blackfoot language, by teaching the other person her own. But now?

It would be impossible. How could she go back into that man’s presence again? After tonight? Besides, he already knew English, which raised another question. How did he know it?

“Yes?”
She answered the knock at her door.

“Milady?” It was Robert.

“You may enter, Robert.”

Her servant opened the door, stepping in only far enough to close the door behind him. He didn’t say a word, awaiting her question to him first. But Genevieve found it difficult to do more than stare at the man, and at length, Robert, perhaps sensing her mood, said, “What is it you wish me to do with the Indian? There is still time for me to take him back to his people.”

“And replace him with another?”

Silence. Robert didn’t utter a word, and it was his reservation more than anything else that bothered her.

“You see,” she said after a while. “There isn’t time to get someone else. We will have to keep him.”

“Milady, surely there is another way. I suspect the man will be trouble.”

“Yes,” she said, “I believe you are right. The man will be trouble. But what other choice do we have? The ship is due to sail in a few hours, and the Blackfoot people are, themselves, leaving as soon as day breaks.”

“I understand, milady, but how can we keep him? We would not even dare to take him on deck at any time during the journey for fear that he might jump overboard and swim ashore, tied or not.” He paused. “Did you know I found him practically untied after you left?”

“Did you?”

The servant sighed. “I believe he may require more effort than either you or I can handle.”

She nodded. “I agree, but what can we do? There must be some way to keep him here.”

“Milady, it is a three-month journey back to St. Louis, and as you might remember, there can be delays due to storms, sandbars, even floods. It would be easy for the man to escape, and I fear we may not have him long anyway.” Robert paused. “The man does not wish to be here. He will find a way to escape.”

Genevieve turned away, the dim light from the candles that lit the room silhouetting her profile as she did so. She paced toward the porthole at the other end of the room, then back, her nervousness almost a tangible thing. She chanced a glance up toward Robert before saying, “Perhaps we could make him want to stay?”