never met a woman like you, Leah . . . and that’s truth, not—”
“Not what a man tells a wench?” Amusement flickered in her dark eyes.
“I can’t stay with the Shawnee forever,” he said huskily. “We both know it.”
“Aye,” she admitted. She gazed into his deep blue eyes and felt suddenly breathless, as though she had been running.
“But . . .” His finger traced her lower lip. “While I’m here . . .”
She smiled and stepped back out of his reach. Her lip tingled where he had touched it, and there was a warm, bubbling sensation in her chest. He was still very close. A lock of his yellow hair had come free of its rawhide thong, and she had a strong urge to tuck it back into place. “Taktaani,” she said. “I’ve nay decided yet.”
“I want to kiss you.”
She laughed. “And I would like to be kissed.” He reached out to her, and she shook her head. “But not enough to lose my scalp for it. Come, Brandon. Let us go while we can. There will be time enough for kissing when we smell the smoke of my village campfires.” She whirled around and set off at a steady pace. With a shrug, Brandon followed.
It was late afternoon when Leah led the way into a gully, made a sharp turn to the left, and motioned him to get down. “We’re being followed,” she said. She’d suspected it for an hour. Then, a few minutes ago, she had heard a flock of crows behind them fly up and call out in alarm.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“Nay. You’d not hear bagpipes unless they were under your chin.” She slipped off her pack. “You wait here while I—”
His fingers closed around her arm. “If there’s danger, you’re not going out there and face it alone.” He caught her other arm and forced her to sit down on the ground .
“And what help would ye be against a Seneca war party?” she hissed. Fear made her heart pound in her chest, but she was determined not to let him know how scared she was.
“More than you suppose.” She tried to struggle up, and he pushed her down again. “Give me that damned excuse for a bow.”
“What would ye do wi’ it?”
“More than you, girl.”
“But ye dinna have the stomach for blood, remember?” she taunted.
“That’s hunting. This is survival. Two entirely different situations.”
“Ye ken nothing of—” Leah froze and clutched at Brandon’s hand as a bone-chilling war whoop rent the still morning air. “Iroquois,” she whispered.
“Great. I was hoping it was only the bear.”
Chapter 5
T he seconds became minutes as Leah and Brandon waited motionless. The ground beneath them was damp, and the air still and hot. Leah listened intently, separating and identifying the woodland sounds that filtered down to their hiding place. Overhead, a squirrel scurried back and forth, padding its nest with leaves and barking to an unseen companion. To the right, at the top of a beech tree, a woodpecker drilled into the bark searching for insects. The rat-ta-tat-tat echoed through the tall trees, drowning fainter rustlings of birds and animals.
Brandon leaned close and whispered in Leah’s ear. “What now?”
“We wait.” She tried to keep her tone light, masking her fear. She had almost convinced herself, earlier, that the man who had shot at them by the stream was not an Iroquois. Now, raw terror threatened her ability to think clearly.
Since Leah had been a child, she had heard stories of the Iroquois and their atrocities. Mothers used the tales to frighten children into staying close to camp; old warriors relived past glories by relating spine-chilling feats of battles against the Iroquois. The difference between those tales and the ones about Matchemenetoo, the devil beast, was that Matchemenetoo was a legend. The Iroquois were all too real and more terrifying than any imagined demon.
Leah’s aunt, Amookas, had been captured by the Iroquois when she was wed to her first husband. Amookas’s infant son had died on the trail, and her husband
“Not what a man tells a wench?” Amusement flickered in her dark eyes.
“I can’t stay with the Shawnee forever,” he said huskily. “We both know it.”
“Aye,” she admitted. She gazed into his deep blue eyes and felt suddenly breathless, as though she had been running.
“But . . .” His finger traced her lower lip. “While I’m here . . .”
She smiled and stepped back out of his reach. Her lip tingled where he had touched it, and there was a warm, bubbling sensation in her chest. He was still very close. A lock of his yellow hair had come free of its rawhide thong, and she had a strong urge to tuck it back into place. “Taktaani,” she said. “I’ve nay decided yet.”
“I want to kiss you.”
She laughed. “And I would like to be kissed.” He reached out to her, and she shook her head. “But not enough to lose my scalp for it. Come, Brandon. Let us go while we can. There will be time enough for kissing when we smell the smoke of my village campfires.” She whirled around and set off at a steady pace. With a shrug, Brandon followed.
It was late afternoon when Leah led the way into a gully, made a sharp turn to the left, and motioned him to get down. “We’re being followed,” she said. She’d suspected it for an hour. Then, a few minutes ago, she had heard a flock of crows behind them fly up and call out in alarm.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“Nay. You’d not hear bagpipes unless they were under your chin.” She slipped off her pack. “You wait here while I—”
His fingers closed around her arm. “If there’s danger, you’re not going out there and face it alone.” He caught her other arm and forced her to sit down on the ground .
“And what help would ye be against a Seneca war party?” she hissed. Fear made her heart pound in her chest, but she was determined not to let him know how scared she was.
“More than you suppose.” She tried to struggle up, and he pushed her down again. “Give me that damned excuse for a bow.”
“What would ye do wi’ it?”
“More than you, girl.”
“But ye dinna have the stomach for blood, remember?” she taunted.
“That’s hunting. This is survival. Two entirely different situations.”
“Ye ken nothing of—” Leah froze and clutched at Brandon’s hand as a bone-chilling war whoop rent the still morning air. “Iroquois,” she whispered.
“Great. I was hoping it was only the bear.”
Chapter 5
T he seconds became minutes as Leah and Brandon waited motionless. The ground beneath them was damp, and the air still and hot. Leah listened intently, separating and identifying the woodland sounds that filtered down to their hiding place. Overhead, a squirrel scurried back and forth, padding its nest with leaves and barking to an unseen companion. To the right, at the top of a beech tree, a woodpecker drilled into the bark searching for insects. The rat-ta-tat-tat echoed through the tall trees, drowning fainter rustlings of birds and animals.
Brandon leaned close and whispered in Leah’s ear. “What now?”
“We wait.” She tried to keep her tone light, masking her fear. She had almost convinced herself, earlier, that the man who had shot at them by the stream was not an Iroquois. Now, raw terror threatened her ability to think clearly.
Since Leah had been a child, she had heard stories of the Iroquois and their atrocities. Mothers used the tales to frighten children into staying close to camp; old warriors relived past glories by relating spine-chilling feats of battles against the Iroquois. The difference between those tales and the ones about Matchemenetoo, the devil beast, was that Matchemenetoo was a legend. The Iroquois were all too real and more terrifying than any imagined demon.
Leah’s aunt, Amookas, had been captured by the Iroquois when she was wed to her first husband. Amookas’s infant son had died on the trail, and her husband
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