Cherokee Storm (14 page)

She glanced back at Anna, but could no longer see her face because of the smoke. No, it wasn't smoke. Mist or a thick fog enveloped the kitchen, and the crackling of the logs on the hearth had changed to the cascade of water over a falls.

Storm Dancer waded through the hip-deep water, took her hand, and drew her deeper into the river.

“I can't leave Anna,” she protested. “She's not dead.”

“Anna is gone.”

Shannon blinked and drew in a deep breath. The tavern had vanished along with her friend. Now, she and Storm Dancer were surrounded by tall trees and rocks on either side. She could hardly see the banks of the river because of the spray from the waterfall and the mist lying heavy on the surface of the water.

“I have to find Anna.” Shannon tried to pull away, but Storm Dancer held tight to her hand.

“Do not be afraid. I will protect you.”

“But Anna…I thought she was dead, and she…”

“Shh, she is safe.” He pressed two callused fingertips over her lips.

Heat diffused through her cheeks and throat at his touch, and she gazed into his dark, luminous eyes. Haunting eyes…so black that they seemed a bottomless pool…so bewitching that they took her breath away.

“This is wrong,” she argued. “I can't leave the tavern to be with you. My father—”

“Do you trust me?”

“You aren't real. This is a dream. This isn't happening.”

He yanked her against him and kissed her fiercely. Her heart jumped as a stab of desire pierced her—desire so sharp and urgent that her protest drained away. She closed her eyes and fell into the all-consuming kiss.

If this was a dream, she wanted it to go on and on.

His mouth was demanding, hard, and sweet as raw cane sugar. Her thoughts tumbled; her muscles went weak as he gathered her up in heavily muscled arms and carried her toward the waterfall.

“Where are you taking me?” she begged.

He kissed her again, and her stomach contracted. Every inch of her skin tingled.

“We can't do this.”

“We cannot do this in daylight,” he said, “but this is not daylight. This is the dream world. Can you not be with me here and now?”

She locked her arms around his neck. His scent filled her head, made her drunk with desire. Nothing mattered but this man. Nothing mattered but this exquisite moment.

“A dream,” she murmured. “Only a dream…”

His lips pressed against her throat. She felt his warm mouth on her skin, and ripples of excitement skittered through her veins. Another kiss ignited the flame in her core, and she raised her face to his.

“Where?” she begged. “Where are you taking me?” If it was a dream, there could be no guilt, no chance of a flesh-and-blood child with almond eyes and honey-colored skin. If this was a dream, there was no sin.

She felt him climbing over uneven rock. The roar of the waterfall grew louder…the cold spray beat against her face. If this was a dream, how could it be so real? If it was a dream, she never wanted to awaken.

“Do you trust me?” he repeated. Suddenly, she realized that he wasn't speaking in English, but Cherokee. Yet, she understood each word perfectly. Was it possible that what passed between them needed no translation?

“Heart of my heart,” he said.

The chords of his sensual voice vibrated in her soul. “Storm Dancer.” How beautiful his name was in Cherokee, she thought, how perfectly it suited him.

They passed through the cascade and into an echoing place beyond. It smelled of ancient rock and running water and moss, but the scents were haunting, as though she knew this place as she knew this man. As if they had lived this minute before…as if they had always been one through time.

She wondered at the strength of this golden man, the power of his corded muscles, the silken texture of his satin skin. In the daylight, he would be red and she white, but here, in this mystical spot, their skin colors blended to one.

The ground beneath Storm Dancer's feet no longer seemed uneven. She tilted her head back and gazed up at a vaulting ceiling overhead, faintly illuminated in unearthly shades of green and azure. Strange rock formations dripped from the ceiling, great waxen icicles thicker than her thigh and longer than the height of a man.

“Do you remember?” he asked.

An undercurrent of gossamer images flickered in the shadowy corridors of her mind. The air had taken on a steamy quality, and the chilly cavern warmed as Storm Dancer strode farther from the crashing cascade and deeper into the mountain.

It seemed as though he carried her for hours, but then, he stopped, stepped down, and lowered her into a warm bath. The water's odor was almost acrid, not unpleasant, but clean and sharp, almost like that of the lemon a visiting lady had once given her at the orphanage. She hadn't known what to do with the lemon; she'd kept it for a long time, until it shriveled and dried into a hard knot. She had never forgotten the scent. This pool reminded her of that precious gift.

She sighed as the warm water surrounded her, draining the tension and cold from her limbs, cradling and suspending her in timeless enchantment. The pool bubbled and hissed, and the rising steam filled her head and made her giddy. She leaned back and sighed with pleasure at the feel of the swirling water on her neck and scalp.

“What of the baby?” she asked, wondering where that question had come from.

“Do not trouble your heart. Anna will love and care for it.”

“Our child?”

“Not ours, but one dear to you, heart of my heart.”

“But Anna's…” Anna was dead, wasn't she? She had died horribly when they were both fourteen. She'd wept over Anna's dead body, hadn't she? Mourned her friend for years.

“She lives,” Storm Dancer half whispered. “Death as you imagine it is an illusion.”

She uttered a small cry of delight as the heat of his strong fingers moved over her throat and breasts. His mouth lingered at her throat and shoulder before trailing warm kisses down to her breasts, licking and nibbling until sweet ribbons of light unraveled through her veins and fueled the growing flames between her thighs.

Her own fingers were not still. She stroked and caressed him, savoring the feel of his body, tracing familiar lines and curves, muscle and hard sinew.

“Is this a dream?” she whispered.

“If you desire it so.”

“I don't understand.”

“The power is yours, Shan-non. You have called me up.”

She would have asked him to explain, but he was kissing her again. He lifted her and lay her on her stomach on a bed of thick moss.

“Close your eyes,” he commanded.

She could not have disobeyed if her life depended on it. Lulled by the sheer joy of his delving fingers, driven by the heat churning within her, she surrendered to his lovemaking.

For a moment, she felt nothing. Then, to her surprise, she became aware of the cold, smooth surface of a small object sliding across the skin of the back of her left thigh. “What is—”

“Shh.”

She tried to think what the cool, hard substance could be. A stone?

“Do not speak, heart of my heart. Only feel.”

He moved the stone in small regular circles, and when her body heat warmed it, he replaced it with another cooler one. He slid the object higher, massaging in soothing patterns over the back of her knee and onto her thigh. Then he leaned over, and gooseflesh rose on her arms as his tongue laved her left shoulder.

She moaned with pleasure, caught between the coolness of the stone and the heat of his moist tongue. Heat flashed under her skin as he first kissed her trembling flesh and then nipped her skin with his teeth. Spasms of pleasure burst in her veins.

She writhed beneath him and tried to turn over, but he leaned his weight on her and held her down. Her breaths came in short, quick gasps. “Please,” she begged.

Another stone. Cold as ice…sliding over her left buttock, massaging, teasing. And all the while, Storm Dancer's mouth seduced her, first a kiss and then a bite…the nape of her neck, along her spine…the hollow of her back.

She was burning up. This was torture. She needed more. She wanted more…. “Please.”

His tongue caressed the crease between her buttocks, his lean fingers holding the stone sliding lower yet, probing…penetrating.

Desire glittered under her skin. Trembling, she pushed herself up on her elbows. “I need…”

“Not yet.”

She arched her hips and felt, not the unyielding surface of stone, but the soft, downy sensation of silken fur. “What are you…”

His sensual laughter echoed through the cavern. “Tell me, Shannon. Tell me what you need.”

“No, that's something I can't do.” Storm Dancer jumped to his feet and folded his arms over his chest. “You ask too much. I'm flesh and blood, not some spirit mystic from a legend.”

His mother tossed a handful of powder on the campfire and the flames flared up in blue and green, casting strange patterns on the round walls of her lodge. The two were alone, far enough from the other longhouses in his village that their heated discussion couldn't be overheard by curious neighbors.

He'd run for many hours into the mountain fastness to find his mother and settle this with her. Honor dictated that he free himself from his commitment to Cardinal before he could ask Shannon to be his.

Cardinal would have to be consulted as well, but the power of the senior women in this tribe lay with Firefly, as it had for nearly a decade, since his grandmother passed away. As befitted a noblewoman, his mother's cabin stood apart, near a bubbling spring, sheltered by towering trees that had been old when the first Norse-men landed their dragon-headed ships on the continent.

He hadn't expected that telling his mother about Shannon would be easy, and she hadn't disappointed him. Her anger was barely concealed behind a mask of rigid dignity.

“Your fire tricks don't scare me, Mother,” he said. “I helped you to grind those minerals when I was small. I can even make yellow or purple smoke, if you like.”

“You should be afraid.” Firefly got to her feet and fixed him with a steely glare. Her years numbered forty and six, but her cheeks were as smooth as girl's and she stood as straight and strong as a young oak. “You were born on a night that the heavens burned with fire. Born with the mark of a lightning bolt branded on your skin.”

“I'm not who you think I am,” he protested. “I'm just a man like any other, nothing more.”

“You were born to save the
Tsalagi.
”

“You're mistaken. According to the stories, Walks With Lightning was a wise man, a mystic. I could be a war leader, if I had to, but nothing more. Wouldn't I know it if I was a chosen one? You're deluding yourself.”

She hissed through clenched teeth. “You speak to me like that? Don't forget who birthed you alone on a mountaintop…who single-handedly beat back a rogue wolf all that long night to keep you safe.”

“I won't marry Cardinal.”

She placed a hand on his arm. “You can't run away from your destiny.”

“Are you listening to me, Mother? I love someone else.”

“Love?” She sniffed dismissively. “Since when is love a reason to marry? Marriage is to strengthen a family—to provide for children.”

Muscles tensed at the back of his neck, and he struggled to find the right words to make her understand. All his life his mother had been there for him, a tower of strength, an endless source of nurturing love. This decision would hurt her, and it tore him apart to oppose her in anything.

“I will choose my own life partner,” he said. “I respect you and the council of women, but—”

“Who are you to choose your own wife? Who is any young man who thinks only with what dangles between his legs?”

“I know that it's tradition for you to pick a wife for me.”

“Not tradition, but law. The senior women of the
Tsalagi
bear the burden of choosing mates for their children.”

“Not for me.” He sucked in a deep breath. “I came to tell you my decision out of respect. I'm not asking your permission.”

She gripped his arm. “Would you shame me and Cardinal for a whim?”

He embraced her and kissed the crown of her head. She smelled of wild strawberries. “Mother, Mother.” He gently pushed her away and gazed into her eyes. “You have to understand, what I feel for Truth Teller's daughter is more than lust.”

“Whatever it is, quench it,” she said. “The soul of your great-great-great-grandfather, Walks With Lightning, lives in your body. You are the embodiment of the prophesy. You may have forgotten who you are and what you will do to save the
Tsalagi,
but you know what to do when the time comes.”

“Bless this house.” A soft voice called from outside the door. “May I come in?”

Storm Dancer gritted his teeth.
Cardinal.
He might have known that his mother would drag her into the argument. How Firefly had summoned Cardinal without leaving the lodge and when no one else in the camp had seen him arrive, he didn't know. He was certain she'd done it. She was a master at women's magic.

“Your promised one,” Firefly said. “Make love to her and you will forget the white-skinned stranger.”

When his mother played a game, she could be ruthless, always no-holds-barred. He glared at her. “You don't miss a trick, do you?”

Amusement glinted in her luminous eyes. “Enter, daughter.”

Storm Dancer touched his lips in respect. “Cardinal.” He followed with the traditional Cherokee blessing.

“Husband.”

Not yet,
he thought. He hadn't wanted to see her tonight, but he didn't blame her. Cardinal was just as entangled in this trap as he was. The senior women did arrange the marriages, but it was well-known that every bride had a choice of several men—every bride-to-be but his.

For the first time, it struck him that she might be no happier about the engagement than he was. After all, Cardinal hadn't had a choice either. She'd been a babe at her mother's breast when the council of women—led by his mother—had proclaimed her the future bride of Walks With Lightning's latest reincarnation.

“I'll leave you two alone,” Firefly said. “I know you have much to talk about. There is no reason to postpone the wedding ceremony any longer.”

“Yes, lady.” Cardinal nodded, then glanced up at him and smiled. “We do have much to talk about.”

“Stay, Mother,” he urged.

“No. I'm certain you can work out the small obstacles of your union best without me.”

Storm Dancer could have sworn he heard her chuckling as she ducked out of the deerskin hanging that served as a doorway.

He heard a rustle behind him, and when he glanced back at his intended, he found that she had untied the deerskin strips that held her fringed dress at the shoulders. Still smiling and unashamed, she let the garment fall and pool around her slim ankles.

Cardinal wore nothing but a necklace of blue and white shells and soft moccasins embroidered with porcupine quills, and her thick, blue-black hair tumbled loosely to her hips. Her waist was small enough for him to encircle with his two hands; her small breasts were high and firm. Her skin glowed fresh and sweet in the firelight, and he could smell the hint of cherry blossoms in her hair.

He groaned as a rush of blood and heat made his stones contract and his spear hard. He had forgotten how beautiful she was. “Cardinal,” he began. “We—”

One dainty hand brushed the dark shadow at the apex of her thighs. “I've waited for you,” she said. “No man has had me.” She cupped a breast and fluttered her thick lashes. “This night, you will be the first.”

 

Shannon fumbled in the darkness. “Storm Dancer?” Her bed…She was in her bed in her father's cabin. Alone.

Tears filled her eyes.

“Storm Dancer,” she whispered. How could a dream be so real? She shook her head and felt around the mattress, half expecting to hear his deep laughter and have him enter her.

She was damp in her woman's cleft…wet…trembling with need. Had she imagined it all? The tavern? The river? The cavern behind the waterfall? Impossible.

Did madness run in her family? Was she losing her mind? Had they really made love on the mountain near Split Cane's camp? Or was that her imagination?

She couldn't lie still. The ache throbbed in her loins. In desperation, she rubbed at the sensitive flesh. In the past, she'd pleasured herself in the night, but this time, she could find no release.

If she believed in witchcraft, she would think that he'd cast a spell over her. But the only enchantment was his body pressed against hers…the sound of his heartbeat thudding in her ears and the taste of his mouth.

If Gall was right, if Storm Dancer had abandoned her, she'd wither and die. No man could ever fire such desire in her body and soul. What she felt for him was more than lust. It must be the kind of love that women were willing to die for.

She rose from the bed and drew on her shift. Her mouth was parched. Barefoot, she walked to the kitchen in search of the water bucket. It stood empty next to the hearth. One of the dogs raised his head and watched her through sleepy eyes as she opened the door and stepped out on the porch.

The night was still. No breeze stirred.

Shannon took down the hanging jug and drank from it. The water was cool and sweet, but as she savored the taste, she thought again of the waterfall and the bubbling hot spring in the cave.

In her mind, the images of the cavern were as real as the porch posts or the hand-hewn planks under her feet. How could she have imagined such a scene?

“Storm Dancer…” she called softly. “Where are you? I need you.”

 

“Cover yourself.” Storm Dancer turned away from Cardinal. “I can't make love to you.”

“You find me flawed? I'm not beautiful enough for you? You think me unworthy?”

“Whatever my mother's told you—”

“Nothing. She's told me nothing, only to come, that you were here and needed me…. That we should join as man and wife.”

Cardinal sounded hurt. He'd not meant to insult her. This wouldn't be easy for her. All her life, she'd expected to become his, to bear his children. “You know I care for you,” he said.

Was she crying? It sounded as though she was. He could never stand to see a woman in tears. He wanted to turn back, to look at her, but he was afraid his strength would fail. What man wouldn't accept such as gift as Cardinal's untouched body?

Only one whose soul had been snatched away….

“It's all right,” she said. “I won't attack you.”

“Your dress?”

She giggled. “On.”

At least she wasn't crying. He glanced over his shoulder to see that she was sitting down on the far side of the fire, her lovely nakedness covered.

She laughed. “You really don't want me, do you?”

“Can we talk?” He tried not to show his relief as he threw a handful of sticks on the coals and the fires flared up. “How did my mother call you? No one saw me when I entered the village.”

“It's a woman thing. I can't tell you.”

He nodded. He hadn't expected her to share secrets. “If I were free, Cardinal, there's no one I'd rather take to wife. But I'm not. I didn't seek this. It never occurred to me to go against the council's decision, but someone else has touched my spirit.”

“A white woman.”

“How did you know that?”

She sighed. “Firefly told me. I'm not nearly as good as she is, but when she…
speaks,
I hear her clearly.”

“And she wanted us to couple. Here, tonight.”

“It's not as though it would be a sin. We've been betrothed since you were two.” Cardinal drew her feet under her and looked into the fire. “I'm not a troublesome person. I can't refuse what the women's council asks of me. If they insist I marry you, I will do as I'm told.”

“Without complaint?”

“Don't you worry that they're right? That you are the rebirth of Walks With Lightning? That you put the people in great danger by shattering the pattern?” She divided her hair, smoothed out a section, and began to braid one half. “You do have the lightning bolt on your palm. I've seen it many times.”

“It's a birthmark, nothing more.”

“You didn't used to think that.”

“I was a boy. Boys brag.”

“The village will believe you found fault with me,” she said shyly. “That something is wrong with me.”

“I'll tell them differently. The fault's mine, Cardinal. What kind of husband would I be to you if I loved someone else?”

She continued plaiting her hair. “What if something terrible happens—something that you could have prevented? Could you live with yourself?”

“You deserve a man who will love you and honor you.”

She got up. Only one braid was completed. Half of her shining hair still hung over one shoulder. “If you hadn't met her, could you have taken me to wife? Fathered my children?”

He smiled at her. “I didn't choose Shannon. If I had never known her, I could have been happy with you.”

“All right.” She stood and went to the door. “I'm glad. I've always respected you, liked you, but there's someone else for me too. Someone I love.”

“Why didn't you say so?”

She covered her mouth with her hand and chuckled. “I told you, I'm not a troublesome person.”

“But you would have given yourself to me.”

“I would have done my duty.” She paused, toying with her braid. “And…”

“Yes?”

“He'll be glad too. In autumn, when the gossips have found something new to talk about, perhaps we can marry. And then he will know that we didn't take pleasure together.”

“I wish you'd told me before,” he said. “I wouldn't have felt so bad about refusing you.”

She cast her gaze down so that he couldn't read the expression in her eyes.

“Can I know who this lucky man is?”

“No, not yet.” She giggled. “I don't tell secrets. You'll find out soon enough.”

She ducked through the doorway and Storm Dancer sat alone, staring into the flames. It was done, and easier than he'd believed possible. Tomorrow he would start his journey back to Truth Teller's trading post and he would do a harder thing. He would ask a white man for his daughter's hand in marriage.

 

It was still dark out when the dogs woke Shannon with their barking. She threw on her clothes and hurried into the kitchen to find her father was already halfway to the door, rifle in hand. Oona was right behind him, carrying his powder horn and shot bag.