sensuality or appeal, and knew that something screamed within her as well that he was forbidden, that he was Seminole.
Quite suddenly he bowed to her. When his eyes rose to meet hers once again, the blue glitter within them was sheerly wicked, taunting. Even touched with a flicker of contempt. And maybe even just a shade of self-mockery …
“Good evening.”
His voice was rich, cultured, with a deep timbre to it. Absurdly, she felt as if she trembled somewhere very deep inside her just at the sound of it. Her fingersgripped more tightly the stair rail she held, and it seemed as if the very blood within her quickened, heated, came to life. He had a strange appeal, one that seemed to reach beneath all civilized veneer and touch raw instinct and emotion.
Teela instantly gave herself a mental shake, reminding herself that she had actually seen very few Indians, actually met or talked to even fewer. Nor had she ever imagined feeling such an intense and perhaps amused scrutiny by such a man, or that such a man could even exist.
“You do speak English?” he said, an ebony brow arched. She imagined it was a question he had heard directed to himself on occasion, though his white blood was every bit as apparent in his features as his Indian blood.
“Yes, I speak English,” Teela said, glad to hear a note of irritation slipping into her own tone.
“Do you plan to cling to the stair rail all night? You needn’t be afraid. I’ve yet to seize a white scalp in my brother’s house, miss … ?”
Her heart slammed suddenly against her chest. He didn’t know who she was. She hadn’t known who he was, and it was a bit difficult to equate Jarrett McKenzie with this man, except that the two did resemble one another physically. It was just that one was Indian, one was not.
She couldn’t begin to imagine admitting to any Indian that she was Michael Warren’s daughter, or even stepdaughter.
She forced her hand to go light on the rail, and to descend the steps in the most dignified and serene manner ever attributed to southern womanhood. She came to the landing in the foyer and faced him through the thrown-open doors to the parlor. She hesitated, appalled to think that she was almost afraid to go farther, afraid to come closer to the man, the impossibly elegant half-breed. But in all of her life, she had refused to show fear—Michael Warren had somehow given her that, atthe least. She stepped forward again, sweeping into the room, coming to the fire that burned in the hearth and stretching out her fingers to be warmed as she continued to study him as unabashedly as he watched her.
“I have no fear of losing my scalp, sir,” she informed him.
A dark brow arched even higher. “Then you are a fool, ma’am. All scalps are in danger in this territory as we speak.”
“You did just assure me that you had yet to take a scalp in your brother’s house. And since it seems you are well versed in civilized manners, it would seem to me that you would consider it incredibly rude to begin taking scalps here tonight from a newcomer to
your
territory.”
She was startled when he reached out, touching the lock of hair that she had left free from the twist of braids at her neck to wave over her shoulder. She was tempted to draw back, too fascinated to manage to do so. His hands were large, powerful, yet as lean and hard as his build. His fingers were very long and deeply bronze.
His eyes, with their startling shade of blue, touched upon hers even as he idly fingered her hair. “Ah, but what a prize such a dazzling swatch of hair would make. You should be warned to take the gravest care, ma’am, for such irresistible flames in the night are seductive and dangerous.”
She drew back slightly, amazed that she should be so breathless at the nearness of any man, so unnerved. She had shocked society herself by steadfastly refusing to wed at the altar, by determining that somehow she would live by her dreams rather than her stepfather’s
Quite suddenly he bowed to her. When his eyes rose to meet hers once again, the blue glitter within them was sheerly wicked, taunting. Even touched with a flicker of contempt. And maybe even just a shade of self-mockery …
“Good evening.”
His voice was rich, cultured, with a deep timbre to it. Absurdly, she felt as if she trembled somewhere very deep inside her just at the sound of it. Her fingersgripped more tightly the stair rail she held, and it seemed as if the very blood within her quickened, heated, came to life. He had a strange appeal, one that seemed to reach beneath all civilized veneer and touch raw instinct and emotion.
Teela instantly gave herself a mental shake, reminding herself that she had actually seen very few Indians, actually met or talked to even fewer. Nor had she ever imagined feeling such an intense and perhaps amused scrutiny by such a man, or that such a man could even exist.
“You do speak English?” he said, an ebony brow arched. She imagined it was a question he had heard directed to himself on occasion, though his white blood was every bit as apparent in his features as his Indian blood.
“Yes, I speak English,” Teela said, glad to hear a note of irritation slipping into her own tone.
“Do you plan to cling to the stair rail all night? You needn’t be afraid. I’ve yet to seize a white scalp in my brother’s house, miss … ?”
Her heart slammed suddenly against her chest. He didn’t know who she was. She hadn’t known who he was, and it was a bit difficult to equate Jarrett McKenzie with this man, except that the two did resemble one another physically. It was just that one was Indian, one was not.
She couldn’t begin to imagine admitting to any Indian that she was Michael Warren’s daughter, or even stepdaughter.
She forced her hand to go light on the rail, and to descend the steps in the most dignified and serene manner ever attributed to southern womanhood. She came to the landing in the foyer and faced him through the thrown-open doors to the parlor. She hesitated, appalled to think that she was almost afraid to go farther, afraid to come closer to the man, the impossibly elegant half-breed. But in all of her life, she had refused to show fear—Michael Warren had somehow given her that, atthe least. She stepped forward again, sweeping into the room, coming to the fire that burned in the hearth and stretching out her fingers to be warmed as she continued to study him as unabashedly as he watched her.
“I have no fear of losing my scalp, sir,” she informed him.
A dark brow arched even higher. “Then you are a fool, ma’am. All scalps are in danger in this territory as we speak.”
“You did just assure me that you had yet to take a scalp in your brother’s house. And since it seems you are well versed in civilized manners, it would seem to me that you would consider it incredibly rude to begin taking scalps here tonight from a newcomer to
your
territory.”
She was startled when he reached out, touching the lock of hair that she had left free from the twist of braids at her neck to wave over her shoulder. She was tempted to draw back, too fascinated to manage to do so. His hands were large, powerful, yet as lean and hard as his build. His fingers were very long and deeply bronze.
His eyes, with their startling shade of blue, touched upon hers even as he idly fingered her hair. “Ah, but what a prize such a dazzling swatch of hair would make. You should be warned to take the gravest care, ma’am, for such irresistible flames in the night are seductive and dangerous.”
She drew back slightly, amazed that she should be so breathless at the nearness of any man, so unnerved. She had shocked society herself by steadfastly refusing to wed at the altar, by determining that somehow she would live by her dreams rather than her stepfather’s
Similar Books
