Runaway (42 page)

She felt a tug on her legs. It brought her under, and he was there. His body slid up against hers and the feel was deliciously erotic in the water.

They broke the surface. He treaded water perhaps a foot away. “Well?” he asked. His black eyes met hers for a moment, diamond bright from the water’s reflection.

“Well?” she murmured.

His eyes had fallen. The cool water had hardened her nipples to round red peaks, she noted with a blush, and that was where his gaze had gone.

His eyes met hers again. There was humor in his voice. It was husky as well. “Near—perfection.”

“The water is—warm,” she agreed.

His smile deepened. “Very. Damned hot, I’d say.”

He reached out for her, drawing her with him as his bold strokes and hard kicks brought them to a point where he could stand. He stood still but continued to draw her toward him. Against him. Her breasts brushed hard against his chest. He caught hold of her buttocks, lifting her against him. His hands embraced her thighs, lifting her higher. Pulling her downward upon the shockingly hard shaft of his desire.

She gasped something, her head falling, her face against his neck, her arms around him. He gripped her buttocks tightly, moving her first at his leisure, then to his more frantic pleasure. Arms and limbs locked around him, she felt the heat inside of her grow until she seemed to radiate like the warmth of the sun, searing against the cool of the water. She arched wildly, felt his hands caress her. Her lips pressed against his shoulder, her fingers dug into his back. Then she gasped, stunned by the fiery splendor that erupted within her so very quickly, dizzy with the strength of it. She was still aware of his force, of the molten heat that suddenly seemed to fill her, and of the then gentle power of her hold, as her arms continued to cling to him, as their bodies remained locked together in the cooling water.

“It really can be paradise,” he murmured to her softly, a hand upon her wet hair and nape.

“Umm—” she began, but was instantly rocked from her aftermath of pleasure as something touched her from behind. Something that could not be a part of Jarrett’s body.

She pushed from him with a wild, fierce force, spinning in the water, trying to find the danger.

“Tara—”

“It’s a big snake!”

“What?”

“It’s huge! Oh, you’re wrong, maybe it wasn’t a snake, maybe it is an alligator, a huge one—oh!” She screamed, again, now all but jumping atop him as the massive
thing
went sliding by her feet.

“Tara—”

“Get me out!”

“It’s not a snake!”

“Then it’s a gator!”

“It’s not a gator, I swear it!”

Even as he said the words, he seemed to come thrusting forward, as if he, too, had been shoved by something huge from behind.

“You see! Oh, my God, Jarrett!”

“Tara, it’s a sea cow! It won’t hurt you.”

“What?”

“It’s just a sea cow. It’s—it’s like an ugly river dolphin! It won’t hurt you. It’s accustomed to the kids playing here; it just wants to be stroked.”

“What?”

He released her—left her!—to dive beneath the water. She could see him—and it—swimming out to where it was deeper. Slim and straight, he ran his hands over the creature as he swam alongside it. Tara caught her breath. He was right that it wasn’t a snake or an alligator.

And he was right, as well, she thought after a moment, that the creature did look something like an ugly dolphin. Only, bigger. She thought that it was somewhere around ten or twelve feet, round and awkward. Yet it could swim with a strange grace.

She suddenly wanted to touch it too.

She went diving under, stroking hard to catch up with Jarrett and the creature, but they made a half turn that brought them back to her. She reached out. She stroked
its somewhat rough hide. It was so much bigger than she, and yet so very gentle.

She suddenly realized that she was about to die for lack of air. She shot back to the surface, gasping. Jarrett shot up next to her, inhaling deeply, black eyes on hers.

“A sea cow, huh?” she said.

“A sea cow. They like those water hyacinths over there,” he said, indicating a flower-weed that seemed to grow in the water.

Tara turned and kicked hard, capturing some of the weed. She dived again with her offering. The animal swam straight toward her. It had a face like a walrus, she thought. Whiskers.

It very gently took the weed from her hand and surfaced. It dived again, coming around her legs. Rubbing against her. She stroked it again.

She hadn’t realized just how involved she had become with the creature until she saw that she was in the water alone with it. Jarrett had climbed up the bank and sat beneath a cypress on a bed of cabbage palms watching her.

The setting sun now seemed to bathe the entire earth in shades of red. The birds had returned to the edges of the stream. Even the white egrets now seemed shaded with twilight pink.

Tara gave the sea cow one last pat and kicked out, swimming toward the embankment. When her feet touched the muddy bottom, she felt uneasy again, afraid to fully step down, afraid of what might be in that mud.

Her unease must have shown on her face. With a grin Jarrett stood, entirely undisturbed by the mud, and strode the few steps into the shallow water to sweep her up into his arms. She shivered slightly, staring into his dark eyes. His flesh was warm; it had dried in the dying sunlight.

“You—shouldn’t have touched me. You were dry. And I’m all wet.”

“I’ll dry again.”

“But I am drenched.”

“Then I will dry you as well,” he told her, and he laid her down upon the cabbage palms, coming down beside her.

“The creature was not such a monster,” she told him. “It was so docile!”

“Ah! Well, you see, all things just like to be … stroked,” he told her.

“Indeed?” she whispered. She should have been cold; she was afire again. She should have been sated; she was amazed at the hunger that filled her. She cleared her throat, trying very hard to think clearly.

“It will grow so cold soon!” she said.

“No. I will warm you.”

“I am doused.”

“I will lick you dry.”

She trembled, and wondered if there wasn’t something in this Eden that whispered of wild, sweet pleasure. And again, perhaps it was not so bad to be so wanted by the rock-hewn stranger who had married her, rescued her from danger, challenged her so fiercely with life.

The breeze passed over her body. She felt deliciously sensitive to its touch. To him.

A smile teased her lips. Her lashes lowered to sweep her cheeks seductively. She met his ebony gaze. “And you … do you just want to be stroked?” she whispered.

He groaned, moving over her, burying his face against the sleek wetness of her belly.

“Yes, my love. I just want to be … stroked.”

She set her fingers upon his ebony hair. She felt his
lips, his hands, moving over her flesh. She gasped aloud herself, and she reached out.

Touching him.

Stroking him.

And the sun fell completely, shadows filling the land. The moon rose in the night sky before they dressed and made their way back to the camp.

T
hree days later they were back by the stream. The weather had taken a very sudden and vicious snap, becoming quite cold, so they were not in the water, but seated upon the bank, Jarrett leaning up against a tree, Tara leaning with her back to his chest, their legs stretched out before them. They were quiet, and a multitude of birds had come to the stream. Tara watched them with absolute fascination.

They were heading back in the morning, and to her astonishment she was almost sorry to be doing so. “They seem so peaceful here,” she murmured to Jarrett.

“They? The birds?”

“The Indians,” she said.

He was silent for a few minutes, then sighed. “It is a different life, Tara. Some things much like the white world, some things not. They are very fair, and the humblest man in the village is welcome to give his opinion on any matter. But murder is punished almost instantly by death; if the murderer escapes, then some member of his family must pay the price. The
mico
—or chief—is usually the eldest son of the chief’s sister, but in these days things sometimes change. James is
mico
here because much of Naomi’s family is dead. Osceola is no hereditary chief, but has gained his power through his
exceptional determination and ability at warfare.” He hesitated a minute. “They love their children and are very good to them, but sometimes, when a child might starve to death otherwise, or when the crying of a child might cause an entire tribe to be attacked or killed, infanticide is practiced, and it is accepted.”

“Oh, God!” Tara breathed, shivering. How horrible! She could not imagine any parent killing a child, especially some of the little brown-skinned urchins she had met here.

Yet, she thought with a deeper chill, she should know, more than others, that blood ties were not necessarily strong ones, and that perhaps the Seminoles acted with much more compassion than certain white men she had come to know.

“Men and women are punished for adultery. The ears of a woman and her lover are cut off. And if the husband chooses, the lover must take his straying wife off his hands. At a second offense the lips and the nose are cut. When a woman’s husband dies, she is bound to mourn for him for four years with wildly disheveled hair. If she dishonors his memory by marrying or sleeping with another man during that time, her dead husband’s kin are free to kill her.”

“I saw no one in the village with sliced ears!” Tara told him.

“Wives tend to be well behaved,” he said lightly.

“Hmm,” she murmured.

His arms tightened around her. “They believe in good and evil, in a supreme being. He is the Great Spirit, and he rules both heaven and earth. He is master of all life. They try to do good, and believe when they die there will be a future state of reward in the place of ‘heaven,’ where the sun rises, or else they will go to where the sun sets and there be punished in a fiery ‘hell.’ ”

“That is not so different,” Tara murmured.

“Have you forgiven me?” he asked her suddenly.

“Forgiven you?”

“For your first day here,” he said, a twinkling light in his eyes when she twisted to see his face.

She shook her head after a moment. “Ah, there is forgiving, and then there is forgetting. I shall certainly not forget!” she assured him.

“Ah, be honest! What would you have said had I tried to tell you that my brother was among the heathen who so terrified everyone?”

She shrugged. “I still have blisters.”

“But think of it this way—you are now growing familiar with our marshes and wilderness. Right?”

“Ah! So I am free to wander where I will now?” she inquired in return.

He leaned back, smiling. “I don’t think I could ever clip your ears. But rest assured—I could quite easily redden your backside.”

“And you, sir—”

“I know. You are unwilling to let me keep my scalp!”

She was about to respond but he sighed suddenly, slipping his arms around her middle so that they rose together. “I want to be back to spend time with Mary tonight, since I have to get back to Cimarron before the army comes for me again,” he added, and there was a touch of bitterness to his voice.

She nodded. She didn’t fight him when he took her hand, but she was not uncomfortable when they went back to camp. The people had grown accustomed to her; she had grown accustomed to the people.

He dined with a number of the warriors while Tara ate with Mary, Naomi, and the children. Soon after, the little girls were asleep on their fur pallets, warm and cozy and comfortable. Mary and Naomi conversed softly in
the center of the cabin, and from the door, which Tara had left purposely ajar, she watched Jarrett with the warriors. She watched his earnest conversations, the emotional flow of his hands as he spoke. He sat next to his brother. The “black drink” was shared that night between them, and as time passed, Jarrett and James—or White Tiger and Running Bear—were arm in arm.

“They are very close. It is amazing,” Naomi told her.

Tara, who had been sitting cross-legged with her elbows on her knees and her chin balanced on her knuckles, looked up. “In all honesty,” she admitted, “I know nothing about Jarrett.”

Naomi smiled, sitting beside her. “Maybe you know enough.”

“He still misses Lisa.”

“He finds great pleasure in you.”

Tara arched a reproachful brow. “Do you think so? And what of the night when I arrived?”

Naomi merely laughed. “That! Well, he was angry. He thought that you were running again.”

“I wasn’t running—I was on my way to see Mr. Treat.”

“Robert?” Naomi inquired, eyes sparkling.

“So Robert knows everything about Jarrett and everyone here as well!” she said mournfully, and Naomi laughed.

“Of course we know Robert. He is Jarrett’s best friend, after his brother, and is frequently a visitor. He brings the children sweets from New Orleans, and they love him very much.”

“I like him as well.”

“Careful! If you were a Seminole woman, you might be risking your ears.”