Wolf Shadow’s Promise (12 page)

“Then you must promise me that if you decide to do such a reckless thing again, you will not wrap these. If you must fight, and I am prevented from stopping you, promise me that you will go as yourself, as a woman. In that way will your safety be assured. Do you so promise?”

She nodded, looking up at him, her eyes meeting the haunting euphoria in his.

“Not that I have relented,” he persisted, his hands beginning the task of unwinding the cloth.

“I understand.” She held up her arms, giving him full access to her, while the yards and yards of material began to curl and tumble to her feet.

“I think I knew, all those years ago,” he mumbled, his eyes dark with desire, his hands full of the cloth, “that you and I were destined to be together. It is why I gave you the necklace and asked you to accompany me. But you denied me.”

“Though I do not deny you now.”

“No,” he admitted, the last of the material falling away, harmlessly hitting the ground, “you do not.” He stared at
her, at all the bareness revealed for the space of a second before his hands came up to massage her through the thin layer of her chemise. “But I think if I had known back then what a beauty you would become when you had grown, I would have stolen you away, no matter your protest.”

Her stomach twisted as though in agony at such a declaration, although it would have been inaccurate to label what she felt pain. She fell against him, gladly giving herself to him.

His voice husky, his hands shaking slightly, he declared, “I think I died a little when I saw the seizers firing at you.”

“I think I did, too.”

“It would have been a great loss if their aim had been a little better. I am grateful for the inaccuracy of their training.”

“As I am, too.”

“What is this thing that you wear?”

“This?” She stared down at herself, at the newest shade of apricot underclothing. “You mean my chemise?”

“It is too many clothes; let us remove it.” And as she smiled her encouragement at him, he tore into the delicate garment as though beneath it waited a feast—and perhaps one did. Quickly mastering the art of the hook and eye, and pushing the chemise off her and to the side, he left her standing before him in only knee-high moccasins.

As a man might pause for a moment to admire a banquet laid out before him, so did his gaze relish over her nakedness, allowing her to become more than a little aware of his own desire, so clearly outlined there within the tight fit of her father's trousers.

Alys suddenly felt the uneven odds of their various states of dress—or, rather, undress. She wished to see him, too.

With delight, she reached over to pull at his shirt,
snatching it off him with his complete cooperation. Her eyes noted the necklace he wore, one she had left for him, but she said nothing. Next to his trousers.

His hands were upon her flesh now, his fingers seeking out her curves, her breasts, the femininity of that, her most secret realm. Her knees buckled under her, and she found herself unable to finish the task of undoing his trousers without his assistance.

Her hand reached out to him again and she whispered, “I cannot control the urge to touch you, Moon Wolf. What is happening to me? Can you tell me what is wrong?”

“Shhh. It is nothing wrong. It is desire, that is all.”

“Desire? But is it always so…intense?…”

“
Saa
, no, I do not believe so. What we share is a coming together of spirit, I think, a nourishing of the soul, as well as passion. I can feel you, the essence of who you are and in this moment, I can see the beauty and simplicity of you. Can you feel it in me, too?”

She nodded.

“
Aa
, I have heard of this before, have known men who speak of this thing, but never have I experienced it.
Saa
, there is nothing wrong. There is a great deal that is right.”

“Is that why I want more? More of what? And why can't I stop myself from wanting to touch you?”

He groaned, his eyes closing.

“I think, Moon Wolf, that resisting you when I was younger was not so wise a thing. I should have gone with you and taken your offer of marriage all those years ago. If I had, do you think we would have experienced this passion long before now?”

“I think that is possible,” he responded, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper.

“Has it always been this way between us, unacknowledged, do you think?”

He nodded, his head against her own, his breathing quick and shallow.

“And do you think it will be like this still, when we have been long married and are growing old together?”

He caught his breath and held it while several moments swept by, followed by a deadly silence. At last he uttered, “Married?…” It was almost a whisper. “Old age? I think that…” He didn't finish. His hands slowed in their exploration of her, and his body went suddenly rigid. He backed away slightly. Had she been at all experienced, she might have taken heed of the brusque change in him, but she had never been in love before, had never been with a man. And even when he took a short step back, away from her, she didn't register his transformation.

More startled than concerned, particularly since she stood nude before him, she took a shaky step forward, trusting him to wrap her back in his arms. After all, this was a time of great import for her; the moment when she would give herself fully to the man she loved.

That he remained before her, his hands to his side, his stance tense, escaped her notice, at least for the moment.

“Alys, Little Brave Woman, we must talk.”

“Talk? We are talking.” She reached out her hand for him.

He ignored her and glanced away. “Alys?”

“What?”

“I must think.” He stepped back, even farther away; she tread forward. He shook his head, frowning. “Do not consider that this is something that I wish to do, but it must be done and you are not making it easy for me.”

“What are you talking about? Easy for you…to what?”

He flashed her a scowl. “We must stop this.”

“Stop?”

She didn't need his quick glance to know what he meant.

She tilted her head to the side. “Why?”

“Because you need to allow me to think…more clearly. I must remember again the words of my grandfather, who instructed me that when a woman is in the heat of passion, I must reason for the two of us. A woman pushed too far can too easily be toppled, leaving her ruined. It is not a wise thing to do to a good woman.” He cast a brief glimpse down at her. “And you are a good woman.”

“I should hope so, though I do not feel so proper right now.”

“But you are a very good woman and what I was about to do is best done only to one's wife, which you are not. It is for this reason that we must stop. We must refrain from becoming…physical with one another.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “I see.” She paused. “And this is because we are not married?”

He nodded.

“Well, if it is merely the lack of a marriage certificate that makes you desire to stop, perhaps arrangements could be made…if you are willing…”

Her words trailed off as she watched an invisible mask drop down over his features, his look all at once deadly stoic.

His dark eyes captured hers, though it did her little good to stare back at him. She could detect nothing. And he became so still that she wondered if he continued to breathe. In response, she uttered no sound, though she did shiver as the lethal silence spread around them, the water dripping in the cave somewhere far away the only sound in an otherwise silent universe.

At last he spoke. “I do not know what this certificate is but I know that it would do us no good.”

She caught her breath, watching as he bent to pick up the shirt he had so recently removed from her. He didn't
look up at her, either, not even when he uttered, “Have you considered what the consequences would be if I were to get you with child?”

A child? She hadn't thought of it. But now that he mentioned it, the idea gave her mood a certain buoyancy. That is, until she glimpsed his expression.

Then, with a single glance, she plummeted, trembling with a premonition.

“It would be an Indian child,” he was continuing. “Can you tell me how a child such as this would be viewed by the white man? And how you would be as well?”

She lifted her chin, dismayed that she had started to shake. “Do you honestly think that I care about such pettiness?” Her voice quivered.

But he appeared oblivious to it. He sent her a heated look. “I think that you should. I know you are a strong and a good woman, but you must regard for a moment the other life that you might carry if we were to…continue as we were.”

“But—”

“Know that I am not in a position to marry. I may never be.”

There it was, she thought, his intention clearly stated. She tossed her head and straightened her spine, as though his simple words hadn't affected her. But her bravado was fleeting; within herself and in secret, she withdrew.

“My life is too unstable,” he continued to speak, apparently unaware of the changes taking place within her. “I cannot permit a wife into my life. It would be unfair to her; from one day to the next I do not know if I will be alive. Such is the direction I have chosen to take my life. I do it willingly for my people. But it is a life that does not permit the presence of a woman, or a child.” He stood up at last, tossing the borrowed shirt at her, which she caught in midair. “What would happen,” he asked, “if I
were to get you with child and then die? You alone would have to bear the brunt of the talk and the prejudice that would surround you. Do you think I would wish this upon you, upon a child of my own making?”

She shook back her head, thrusting her arms into the shirt with vigor. And, pulling the material up and over her head, then down her body, she felt a little better, at least a little less vulnerable. Enough so that she could point out, though perhaps only in an attempt to spare her dignity, “I have not asked you to marry me, nor to get me pregnant.”

He smiled, a temperate half smile. “Not in words.”

She froze, mortified. “You misunderstand my intention. I only mentioned that you had once offered to marry me. I did not mean that I was seeking that sort of thing from you now.”

“Were you not?” He grinned again. “It does not matter. I would not take you as a man does a woman he loves unless we were married. One does not linger over a good woman without justification.” His eyes darkened, if that were possible, with an emotion that was silent and defeating at the same time. He said, “Do not think that I would not like to have you in the way of a wife. I would like it very much; it is only that I cannot. I am Indian. You are white. Perhaps we should seek a mate, when the time is right, from within our own people.”

Stunned even further, Alys could do little more than stare at him, barely able to utter, “You…you are prejudiced.”

He shrugged. “I could be.”

She backed away from him, but even embarrassment couldn't keep her from asking, “Then while you were ill and were teasing me, and now here today, how you touched me, the things you said to me; have you only been pretending your affection?” Mortified, she couldn't help the sob that escaped from her throat.

He moaned, and at last his gaze came up to study her. It was only then that he looked at her, really looked at her. She would never know with certainty what he saw, but, as though suddenly beside himself, he closed the distance between them.

He took her in his arms, preciously folding her back into his embrace, murmuring, “Alys, my good Little Brave Woman, you misunderstand,” he explained, mumbling into her hair. “I know that what I am saying is not easy to bear. But do you honestly think I could pretend such eagerness with you? Hear me now and do not mistake me again. It is because I care deeply for you that I am trying to show you the respect you deserve. It has been wrong of me to tease you these past few weeks. I knew it even when I was doing it; knew it was a path I should not take with you, particularly since it is you who always comes to my rescue. But it cannot now be helped. I can, however, keep myself from making a worse mistake.”

Her chin trembled. “What do you mean, worse mistake?”

“Making love to you would be a terrible mistake on my part.”

Alys gulped. Whatever gladness his speech had at first inspired died a quick and silent death.

She felt foolish, uncertain, and particularly childish all at the same time. How could she have misinterpreted him so completely? She went rigid, although, contrarily, her knees began to quiver.

“You are shaking.”

She couldn't respond.

“I know that this is hard to accept, if you will try to think as I do, you will see that as you grow older, you will be happy that I was strong at this time of your life. After all, would you have me treat you as one would an unfaithful wife? You,” he pushed his hands through her hair,
“whose delicate care has saved my life not once, but twice.”

With all her will, she stepped away from him, out of his reach, and said, “But you saved my life tonight and so we are even.” Her composure was shattered, and she turned her back on him that he might not witness her humiliation.

“That is not the same thing,” he said as though those simple words would explain it all. “Tonight was my duty.”

Duty? Was that all she was?

She whispered, not even glancing over her shoulder, “As it was mine, to save yours.”

“No, not duty. What you did came from the heart, a very good heart. One I will not spoil.”

She heard his breathing behind her, could feel the nearness of him by the tingling sensation upon her skin.

And then the worst thing happened. She sobbed. She couldn't help it.

She didn't want to cry, didn't want him to witness the weakness in her. But she couldn't help it, and her shoulders shook with the force of her feeling.