Tender Taming (10 page)

“Talk about people who think they’re superior!” Whitney muttered caustically. “You’ll pardon me if I don’t kiss your feet for this golden opportunity! I want to understand a little more about this. You actually had the audacity to tell your grandmother you were marrying me at this—this war party? I thought Miccosukees didn’t lie.”

Eagle rubbed his temple patiently, and she could see clearly that he was in the mental process of counting to ten. “It is not a war party; it is the Green Corn Dance and it dates back to the festival held by our Georgia Creek ancestry. I did not lie to my grandmother. I have every intention of going through with the ceremony, and I can’t see any reason it should annoy you to humor an old woman.”

“Humor an old woman!” Whitney shrieked. “You want me to take part in a farcical marriage in front of some totem pole—”

“No totem pole,” Eagle interrupted irritably. “We are the Seminole Nation and this is the Florida Everglades, not the Great Plains. Really, Whitney, you have to stop thinking that all Indians are painted savages who ride around on pinto ponies.”

Whitney ground her teeth together and glared at him coldly. “I do know where I am.” Pushing herself from the tree, she squared her shoulders and started back down the path.

“Get back here!” he growled with menace, spinning her around curtly with a clamped grip on her wrist. “You are not walking back to that encampment and upsetting my grandmother.”

Whitney met his darkly challenging eyes for a minute, then shifted her gaze to her wrist. “I have no intention of upsetting Morning Dew,” she told him, hoping her voice held no quaver.

“Fine. Then walk back with me nicely.” His fingers interlaced with hers firmly and he strolled ahead of her. It was a small gesture, but it left Whitney seething. He thinks he’s got it all sewn up, she thought angrily.

“You should like the festivities,” Eagle said cheerfully as they neared the chickees. “It will be a chance for you to socialize with many clans and”—he gave her a glance of wriggled-brow mockery—“it will keep us both occupied so that we’re not tearing at each other’s hair.”

“Black clouds do have silver linings,” Whitney said through gritted teeth.

Their conversation was cut off, as Morning Dew had seen them and was waving happily. The majority of her affection was oddly lavished on Whitney rather than her grandson. Whitney decided with a great deal of satisfaction that the stern old woman was on her side and still annoyed with White Eagle. Breaking into fast-clipped speech at their approach about how worried she’d been, Morning Dew came to her, slid an arm around her shoulder and led her to the cooking fire. Whitney sat as beckoned, looking at Eagle innocently.

“It seems you found yourself a fan while I was gone,” he said briefly.

Whitney could not prevent a smug smile of satisfaction from curling her lips even as she lowered her head to hide it.

The meal was strangely peaceful and pleasant; the stew Eagle had referred to delicious. After the food had been consumed, Morning Dew served aromatic coffee in large ceramic mugs. The scent of the fresh brew reminded Whitney that she hadn’t had a cigarette for hours. Eagle had been right; she had actually been too busy to miss the nicotine, but now she longed for a relaxing cigarette.

“I’ll get them for you,” Eagle said, reading her thoughts with a grin as he followed her eyes to the left chickee, where she had stowed her things.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

Morning Dew began to pick up after the meal while he was gone, and when Whitney attempted to help, she was firmly motioned to sit. This night she was a guest. As soon as Eagle returned, Morning Dew spoke to him quickly, said good night to Whitney and left them.

Eagle lit a cigarette and handed it to Whitney as he sank back down beside her. “We’d better get to sleep soon ourselves,” he remarked casually. “Our days are long.”

Whitney inhaled deeply, annoyed to find her fingers shaking. The whole thing was so incongruous! Twenty-four hours ago she had met him; they were attracted with the force of magnetic poles, yet they clashed like a thunderstorm and argued with the ferocity of cats and dogs.

And here they were sipping coffee in the outlands of the Glades and casually discussing bedtime.

Crushing her cigarette carefully, Whitney finished her coffee with a quick gulp, yawned and stretched. There would be safety in sleep.

“You’re right; these days are long,” she said nervously. “Sleep sounds good.” She started across the moonlit clearing and then hesitated. “Are you coming?”

“In a minute. My grandmother left you a present—you’ll find it with the bedding.”

Eagle spoke to her absently, as if his thoughts were far away. Shrugging, Whitney hurried over to their chickee and climbed up to the platform. The sleeping quarters, she knew, were high off the ground for security from snakes and other pests, just as the cooking house was built on a space of flat ground to avoid fire. She had learned during dinner that the Seminoles and other southeastern Indians had originally built log cabins, but due to their flight into the Glades and repeated attacks by a government determined to rout them, they had adapted to the thatched-roof homes.

Whitney prepared their bedding with surprising ease. Rather than the misery she had expected, the abode provided ample comfort. Mosquito netting kept the insects at bay, and thick quilts made the platform mattress undeniably soft. Straightening a cover, Whitney found the present Eagle had spoken of.

It was a sheer white gown, floor length and intricately and lovingly hand-sewn: a bride’s gown.

Whitney stared at the beautiful costume for a minute of touched amazement; then her temper began to rise. Morning Dew had offered her nothing but kindness, and the old woman was being horribly deceived. How could her own grandson do such a thing to her!

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?”

Eagle had silently pounced onto the platform and now stood looking at her, his eyes curiously glittering in the gentle glow of fire and moon.

“Like it?” Whitney grated. “I like it just fine! But I have no intention of accepting such a gift. What you are doing to that woman is criminal!”

“I’ll worry about my own actions,” Eagle told her curtly, checking the nets as he once again began doffing his clothes. Fuming, Whitney discarded her boots and curled onto the floor-bed, her eyes tightly closed. He was calmly stripping with the same thoughtless abandon as before, but she certainly wasn’t joining in a second time. The results of the first were still shatteringly fresh in her mind.

A moment later Eagle joined her, his length inches from her own. He was silent for so long she was sure he slept; then he spoke harshly in the darkness. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“About what?”

“Do you really think one or a hundred garments would stop me if I decided to attack your precious body? Don’t flatter yourself that you are such a prize, and don’t deceive yourself into thinking you don’t want me. You were mine for the taking from the moment we met.” The low gravel sound of his voice increased as he spoke. “But don’t worry—I taunted you for a reaction this morning. If you leave these woods, you owe me nothing. If you stick to your part of the bargain, you’ll still receive whatever assistance I can give you.” He rolled away from her. “I’ll even try to forget that you think we’re all a pack of barbarians.”

“But I don’t!” Whitney protested.

“No?” He swung back and challenged her with remote curiosity. “Then just what is your problem?”

“I—I—I—”

“Un-unh!” he exclaimed impatiently. “For once, just talk. Try being a little honest with yourself.”

Shivering in the moonlight, Whitney stared miserably into his searching eyes. How could she explain what she didn’t understand? Suddenly his hand was on her cheek, his thumb caressing her smooth skin. With rough tenderness he traced a pattern down and across her lips, a hard look of longing tautening his features. She read physical desire in his tense demand, but it was coupled with something else—evidence that that desire could only be appeased if it was reciprocated.

Swallowing, Whitney closed her eyes, shivering but un-protesting. His lips found hers and cajoled sweetly until her mouth opened and offered and received. The seeking, stabbing warmth of his commanding tongue was easily drugging her into submissive euphoria again; his whisper-light touch upon her body was a magic she had long anticipated but never expected to experience. The natural masculine scent of him came to her with its intoxicating woodsy aroma, and she lifted her hands to touch the raven hair, the rippled golden muscles of his shoulders. Her shivers became shudders of awed excitement, and a low moan escaped her throat as his lips left hers to travel down the line to her breasts as he began to unsnap the buttons of her shirt slowly, one by one by one, his tongue making little darting forays of moistness upon her flesh.

His fingers slipped into the waistband of her pants, and while they assuredly found the button, he met her heavy-lidded gaze with eyes smoldering gray from the intensity of his desire. Their locked stare sent another heat wave of shivers coursing through her, and even as he watched her, his breath coming in deeper and deeper pants, she heard the slow, steady sound of her zipper sliding open to his gentle, determined insistence.

His eyes continued to hold hers as his lips came back to drink more fully of her mouth, and his fingers splayed over her hip and the skin of her upper abdomen, conquering the area newly exposed to his touch, easing the material firmly lower. Her fingers had clung to his back, then frozen; his free hand rose to catch her right one, guiding it along his length to his hip, to the rigid tautness of his stomach, to the intimate warmth of pulsating strength that was shockingly vibrant and alive …

Whitney gasped, and then the panic set in. She felt innate terror that she couldn’t possibly handle or please a man of such demanding virility. Her body went rigid; her moan became a fervent denial. Releasing him as if she had been burned, she pushed at his massive shoulders, pushed fiercely upon his broad chest.

Eagle jerked away from her, and his face was a basilisk of dark anger. With a muttered oath he sprang to his feet and impatiently stepped into his jeans, yanking them over his long legs in a furious motion.

Tears were forming in Whitney’s eyes. “Where are you going?” she asked quickly, before he could hear the thickness in her voice.

“I’m taking my undesirable presence out to the alligators,” he retorted, his eyes blazing and his mouth a grim white line. A second later he swung off the platform and was gone into the night.

S
TUNNED, WHITNEY STARED AFTER
him as the seconds ticked by. He was gone, her mind kept repeating numbly. He thought she delighted in tormenting him, then calling a halt. He thought she would only tease and withdraw because he was unworthy of her … And still he would walk away before he would hurt her.

Suddenly she couldn’t bear his believing that her behavior was spawned by such motives. She couldn’t define her feelings; she only knew that if he walked away tonight, she would lose something special, something that she craved desperately, needed. The void of his absence was already ripping apart her heart and soul.

Talk, he had told her. She didn’t know what to say, but if only she could find him, the words would have to come. She had so terribly much at stake!

Scrambling to her feet, she hesitated. The hand-sewn gown lay strewn at the foot of the bedding. Whitney impulsively pulled off her clothing, ripping at the pearl snaps in her haste, and quickly put on the white gown. A supple swing brought her to the ground, and she peered anxiously down the pine path to the lake. Was that the way he had gone? A wraith in white beneath the moonlight, Whitney started down the path, terrified but determined. The trees, which offered gentle shade in the daytime, were a sinister refuge for macabre creatures in the night.

She started running as she neared the lake, praying that he would be there, praying that he wouldn’t reject her. She stumbled from the trees and a sob escaped her as she fell to her knees before the water. He was there, sitting on the rock, watching the moon play on the water.

“Whitney!” He was beside her in a second, drawing her protectively to his side, his anger erased by concern. “What happened? What’s wrong? Are you hurt? My grandmother—”

“No, no,” Whitney gasped, burrowing her face in his neck. “Nothing is wrong, nothing happened. Morning Dew is fine. I—I wanted to talk to you, and I frightened myself in the trees.”

“Oh.” She felt his chest contract as he expelled a breath of relief. Then his hands were over her head, crushing the soft wings of her hair as he tilted her face upward. “What did you want to say that was so important?”

Whitney’s mind went blank and she watched him with dismay. She had to talk or he would completely lose patience with her! “I don’t know where to begin,” she murmured unhappily.

“They usually do suggest that you begin at the beginning,” Eagle said with a gentle grin. “Let’s sit by the shore. Maybe if you watch the water, it will help.”

He led her to the water’s edge and they lowered themselves to the grass and sand shore. The effect
was
lulling, Whitney thought, as she cast her eyes over the luminescent star glow of the water. Eagle was beside her, but he didn’t touch her. He was quiet, watching the water also, waiting with soothing patience. Whitney glanced at him, then returned her stare to the water.

“You really don’t understand—”

“I want to,” he interrupted softly.

“My problem isn’t you; it’s me. I would be a liar to deny I felt an immediate attraction to you. I’d also be a liar to say I’ve sometimes thought you weren’t … good enough for me.” Sucking in her breath to begin again, Whitney kept her eyes studiously in front of her. If she were to see his crystal gaze now, she would falter; she would not be able to go on. She was going to try to say things she had kept submerged from her own thoughts. “I—I think there is something wrong with me, although I don’t know what a technical definition would be. I didn’t know it until I was married. I guess I expected to get something out of sex, and then—then Gerry—my husband …” Whitney broke off, crunching her lip.