Night Hunter (17 page)

She was nearly back asleep when she again jerked awake. This time there was no doubt of the cause. Laird was talking in his sleep. Only, she didn’t understand a word he was saying. He’d done that before, and she’d been able to get him to speak in English again. How had she accomplished that?

Smiling faintly, she pushed out her butt, making contact. She discovered he had an erection and turned so she now faced him. She lifted her knee and then lowered it, thinking to rub it over his penis. Before she could complete the act, his body tensed.

“Laird, it’s all right,” she soothed. “You just had a dream.”

Suddenly, he sprang to his feet, and she hurried to do the same. He’d turned off the porch light when they went to bed and now stood in the dark, invisible except for the faintest shape and tension that boiled from him.

“What is it?” she asked. Why she was backing away instead of trying to embrace him, she couldn’t say.

More words erupted from him. She hugged herself. He stalked from one end of the porch to another, then slammed his fist against the screening.

“Don’t!” she warned. “You’ll break—”

Whirling, he came at her. She tried to duck under his outstretched arms, but he caught her upper arms and violently shook her. Mindful of the neighbors, she forced herself not to cry out. Instead, she pummeled his chest. He clamped down, and her arms instantly turned numb.

“Don’t. Please, you’re hurting me.”

He didn’t hear. Either that or he didn’t care. He continued to shake her.

“What—what have I—ow!” She gasped. She’d bitten her tongue.

More foreign words spewed from him. He stopped shaking her and was trying to pull her against him. Leery of what he might do, she tried to knee him in the balls. Unfortunately, her aim was off, causing her knee to glance off his thigh. Before she could try again, he lifted her half off her feet and threw her to the mattress.

Instead of coming after her, he charged the netting, ripped it apart, and jumped to the ground. She heard him run off.

Late afternoon found Mala in her shop. Although half sick from exhaustion, she’d known better than try to sleep. And now that she’d unsuccessfully tried to contact Laird’s brother, driven over to the marina only to find his business and houseboat locked up, and conducted some research at the library, she was doing the one thing that might put her mind at peace.

After taking a sip of iced tea—the only thing she’d been able to put in her stomach—she focused on what she’d created. The bracelet was essentially the same as the drawing she’d shown Laird except she’d wound up using even smaller shells. She still had to fasten a clasp to it before it would stay on, but when she draped it over her wrist, she felt satisfied—or at least as satisfied as someone whose life was in turmoil could.

She’d left a message asking Clint to please get in touch if he heard from his “brother” and hadn’t really expected to find Laird either at home or work. What truly upset her was what she’d learned from her research. Following Osceola’s death, the Seminole had continued to hold out against the whites, but within three years, most had surrendered and been relocated west of the Mississippi.

A few holdouts had fled deep into the Everglades, apparently to live out their lives in the swamps. Nothing was known about their lives as fugitives, but some of their great-great-grandchildren continued to live much as the ancient Seminole had. Had they survived, endured, thrived, because they’d followed a brave and competent leader?

The bracelet started to slide off her wrist, and she held it in place. Despite her reliance on natural materials, she’d always taken pride in clean, smooth, lines—what one critic had called a refined polish. This piece looked as if it had been fashioned by someone unschooled in the craft. It was primitive and crude—like the necklace that had served as her inspiration.

She closed her eyes, but didn’t try to hold back her tears. Wherever Laird was, she had no doubt he wore the necklace Osceola had given him.

Maybe all she’d ever have of her lover was this bracelet. That and memories of the most intense and unforgettable sex of her life.

The warrior known as Thunder bent low to the ground. His rough and callused feet were silent as he slipped closer to the enemy. His senses were alert to the sights, sounds and smells of the Everglades, and he felt as one with his surroundings. Even his heart beat in time with his world. The sun had bronzed him. His muscles were hard. As before, he’d found something to wear and weapons on the path. Naked except for the loincloth, he felt the reassuring pressure of the knife at his side, the bow and arrows strapped to his back. He couldn’t say how long he’d been walking or when and how he’d known he’d gotten near men who would kill him if they had the chance.

Seated deep inside him was knowledge of the men, women and children who made up his family. Their words of encouragement and confidence rang inside him and created their own rhythm.

And yet there was something else—a touch that didn’t come from his people. A woman’s slender but strong arms, her body blending with his. Again and again as he walked, she came to him, tried to take over his thoughts and body, fought to make him forget that the lives of the Seminole depended on his knowledge of the enemy.

Why would she try to come between him and his task? His destiny?

Why was her hold on him so strong?

Something—it might have been the woman’s fingers—brushed his breast. He lifted his hand, intending to push her away. Instead, his gaze settled on the ring on his smallest finger. Stopping, he turned his hand one way and then another until a shaft of light from the dying sun struck it. He didn’t recognize the material it was made from, and yet his head echoed with her explanation of how she’d woven silver strands together to duplicate a child’s braid.

And he’d placed her creation on his finger.

A tentacle of fear raced through him, but when he grabbed the ring, he couldn’t make himself tear it off and throw it away.

She had hold of him.

Had captured him.

No!

“Yes.”

Heart pounding, determined to learn where her voice had come from, he stared at his surroundings. He didn’t want to admit that she’d left her word inside him, maybe was speaking to him from a great distance, but perhaps he had no choice.

No! She would
not
control him!

Control belonged to him.

Mala jerked awake. She’d barely comprehended that she’d fallen asleep at her work bench when the full truth of what was happening struck her. No matter that she was alone with only the breeze from the overhead fan to keep her company, Laird had found her.

No, not Laird. Thunder.

Thunder, who understood her body better than she ever could.

She stood because she had no choice. Self-control had nothing to do with walking over to where she felt the moist air moving over her throat. Without so much as trying to stop herself, she stripped off her clothes. Divesting herself of her underwear took the longest because nudity, especially nudity
he
demanded, made her feel incredibly exposed, but she had no choice or control over what her hands were doing. Finally, she stood with her shirt, shorts, bra, and panties pooled around her feet with her arms and legs spread and her head uplifted.

“What do you want?” she insisted. “Damn it, why are you doing this?”

“You know.”

Two words, two powerful words and her clitoris buzzed. “Because this is how you get your jollies.”

“No, not that.”

“
What then?”

His hands caressed her breasts.

“Do you remember what happened between us?”
he asked.

“How can I possibly forget?”

His hands massaged her belly.

“I don’t—damn it, I don’t want you doing that.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

His hands explored her inner thighs.

“Laird, please!”

“Soon you will be satisfied.”

“You…” The last remnants of rational thought slipped away. Mindless, she arched her back and spread her legs, desperate to give him full access to the part of her that belonged to him anyway. With rough and confident fingers, he deftly separated her heated folds and probed deep inside her.

“Oh God, thank you.”

“Mine to do what I must with.”

He was wrong. Her shuddering climax was her own.

But he’d made it possible.

Compelled it.

Thunder’s lips curled into a smile. He pushed aside the small length of leather that was his only clothing and touched his swollen cock. In his mind, he saw the woman standing naked with her hands between her legs. Her head had fallen back, and her breath came in gasps. He smelled her body’s juices and felt her uncontrolled spasms. Although he couldn’t hear what she was saying, he read her lips. She was begging him, first to leave her alone, then to bring her to climax. He obeyed her command because that had been his intention from the beginning. She shuddered, jerked. Her mouth fell open and her limbs trembled. She cried.

Good. She would not forget his domination of her. Was that all he wanted from her? Wasn’t there something more, something that had to do with his mouth gentle on her neck and wanting to feel her lips on his?

Posed to masturbate, he was distracted by an unfamiliar sound. Crouching, he cocked his head so he could better listen. Unfortunately, the swamp’s song prevented him from distinguishing what didn’t fit from the rest. Just the same, he drew his knife out of its leather sheath. According to the Seminole scouts he’d talked to earlier, a troop of perhaps a dozen soldiers had been camped near a large cypress swamp. As long as the enemy remained there, they represented no threat, but he had no doubt that they’d soon be on the move again. He had to shadow them and, if necessary, warn his people if the enemy got too close.

His cock was no longer as swollen as it had been a minute ago, but he still couldn’t concentrate as fully as he should. He shook his head and sucked in hot, humid air that smelled of swamp gases and lush vegetation. Dimly he remembered other smells from the life he’d lived before joining his people, but those memories were fading. It was as it should be. He needed to become a Seminole warrior, nothing else.

Without warning, something slammed into his side. The force threw him forward and onto his knees, distracting him from a sharp rifle retort. Before he’d regained his breath, he fought his way back onto his feet. Strength was draining from him. His side screamed in pain. When he touched it, his hand became coated in blood.

Voices. Yelling. Too close.

Growling in shock and anger, Thunder stumbled toward several close-growing hardwood trees and hid behind the nearest one. Night was coming. Night might save him. His vision blurred, and when he tried to shake his head to clear it, agony dropped his legs out from under him. He slid onto his rump and hands, briefly losing his grip on his knife. Only half conscious now, he instinctively drew the knife to his chest. A minute, maybe two, then the worst of the pain would be over. He could think again.

Plan for survival.

Mala had taken the proverbial cold shower following her self-satisfaction and had managed to fall back into an uneasy sleep, but when consciousness returned, she wasn’t surprised. After all, hadn’t she learned, in spades, that getting free of Laird’s particular brand of mind and body control wouldn’t be easy?

Only—only what?

Sitting up, she turned on the lamp on her nightstand. The sudden light forced her to close her eyes until they adjusted. A quick inventory told her that, no, the man who now thought of himself as Thunder had no interest in getting her to play with herself again. Something else had made him reach out.

Something intertwined with pain.

Confused by the burning sensation in her side, she slipped out of bed and walked naked into the bathroom. A thorough examination reinforced what her searching fingers had already told her which was she had no injury there. And yet—damn, that hurt!

No, not her. Him.

Cold fear tightened her nipples and made swallowing difficult.

He was hurt.

Alone and vulnerable.

The long night had given way to day before Thunder felt fully conscious again. Hard as it was to manage his pain, he was thankful to it for clearing his head. From what he’d been able to determine, the bullet hadn’t lodged itself in him. He’d felt no broken ribs, no sense that any vital organs had been pierced, but he’d lost a lot of blood and pressing leaves against his wound hadn’t completely stopped the bleeding.

Like the hunted animal he’d been last night, he’d remained silent. He had foggy memories of hearing men and horses nearby, the hot taste of fear he’d never tell anyone about. When, finally, the enemy had ridden off, he’d given thanks to the spirits who’d protected him.

However, although he was fairly sure no one was waiting to ambush him, he had no delusions about the danger to his village. The soldiers had been on the move because they thought they knew where the Seminole fugitives were hiding. Because they foolishly insisted on traveling on horseback, they had to circumvent swampy areas and where vegetation grew too close together, but eventually they’d find the village.

He, Thunder, had to warn his people.

Weak, he had no choice but to frequently stop and rest. He berated himself for allowing himself to be distracted from his mission. At the same time, he refused to admit that weakness of the flesh had been solely responsible.

She
—he couldn’t remember her name—was evil. One of the enemy.

Gathering himself, he continued his lurching walk. He kept his hand against his side so his bandage would stay in place and had returned his knife to its sheath. His bow and quiver were still lashed to his back, but he didn’t trust himself to be able to use the weapon. It would take a precious second to free the knife and have it at the ready, but he had no choice. Every step hurt. Every step increased his anger.