The Warrior's Captive Bride

“Three.”

“When was the first?”

He glared at her and she knew. Of course, it was when they met. That was why he thought she had cursed him. His eyes narrowed.

“I am not a witch. I cannot bring frenzy witchcraft or love magic. I cannot shape-shift, nor do I see visions.”

His eyes widened and then his gaze darted away. Did he see visions, she wondered.

“But I know many cures. Some for falling.” She folded her hands and squeezed one with the other.

“Start with those,” he said.

The silence stretched and she cleared her throat. “Now about my questions.”

“I will answer, but let me first see to my horses and make a camp.”

A camp. Her stomach lurched. Of course, he would make a camp. She was staying here in the forest with him for two days. And two nights. Alone.

Fear and anticipation mingled.

She warned herself against his appealing mouth and the enticing line of his jaw. He retrieved his bow and she watched the muscles of his forearm cord. His body was strong and muscular. It appeared perfect, but, just like her, he had flaws. This was not the kind of man she should want. Still, some part of her did. Was it because he had been bold enough to approach her in the woods that day?

She recalled their first meeting and his offer to make her his second wife.

“You were promised to a woman. Have you taken her as a wife?”

He stilled and spoke to her over his broad shoulder. “No.”

She nodded and he turned away from the direction where she could find her tribe.

No wife, she thought, watching him. He looked so strong. So perfect.

“Because of...” She wanted to ask if it was because of her but could not.

“I will not marry her until I am well.”

Skylark absorbed this blow. He needed her help to return him to his path. But he did not want her in the way she wanted him.

Heyoka, she thought. Wanting a man who did not want her.

Sky stiffened her shoulders and her resolve. Certainly she had enough sense not to become involved with a man who loved another.

He glanced back at her. “Are you coming?”

“Yes.” But I will not share a buffalo robe with you. No matter how handsome you are.

He led the way to his horses and Frost trotted along with them, occasionally darting off after a ground squirrel or some other alluring scent.

She was surprised to see two pack animals, a chestnut and a red roan. Neither wore a saddle.

Where was his mount? The men always rode. Women rode only on traveling days and only if there was room on the horses after they were packed with the household gear. Men needed to be free to protect their families and so their horses carried no gear and their hands held only the reins and their weapons.

He tied his quiver to the nearest pack saddle and hooked his bow over a pommel. When he turned back, he found her studying him.

“I no longer ride,” he said.

She realized why instantly. His falling made it too dangerous. Their eyes met and she saw the pride in the lifting of his chin as he waited for her to say something. This was why he did not wish his people to know, because of this feeling she had for him right now.

She forced a smile.

“Soon you will ride again.”

His guarded expression switched to confusion as his brow furrowed.

“That is what I pray for every day, to be a warrior once more. I want to serve my people. But to be a burden...” He shook his head in dismay.

“I understand that. Everyone needs a purpose.”

“And I have lost mine.”

“We will find it again, together.” She spoke with a confidence she did not feel, but still she held her smile and finally she saw his mouth quirk. The transformation was immediate and startling. He looked less severe and even more handsome. She could not keep from reaching out to stroke his cheek. Excitement buzzed through her, tickling her skin like bees on an open blossom. She leaned toward him. His hand captured hers, trapping it to his jaw for just an instant. Then he released her and stepped back.

She stood, bereft by his withdrawal. “Tonight we will talk,” she said. “Tomorrow I will begin gathering plants.”

“Yes. That is good.”

“I have to know all about you. If I am to treat you, I mean.” It was true, but she was grateful for the excuse to hear his voice.

When he spoke, the low rumble tickled her deep in the pit of her stomach. A warning prickled her neck. He had asked for her help. Nothing more. Yet he seemed to also feel the lure that tugged between them.

“Well, that may take some time.”

He picked a place with a wall of rock beside a small, pretty lake. The open ground had tall green grass for the horses, and nearby a cold spring tumbled down the rocks, giving them drinking water. It was a good camp. The rocks behind them protected against the wind and the ground all around was scattered with much firewood. She set to work gathering timber and kindling as he unburdened his horses and hobbled them to keep them from wandering. When she returned, the horses were happily munching on grass, unconcerned that their front feet were tied with a leather binding.

Frost was sniffing about in the cattails, and trying and failing to catch frogs.

The sun was directly over them, so they sat in the shade beside the lake and shared a meal.

They drank cold water from the cascading stream and ate the pemmican they both carried. Hers was filled with wax currants mixed with tallow and his was filled with nuts and dried Saskatoon berries. Traveling food, portable, dense and delicious.

Frost appeared, his tail wagging, hopeful for some food. Night Storm fed him some of his pemmican and then waved him off. Frost left in good humor, returning to his futile attempts at hunting. The process involved a great deal of leaping into the water, swimming back to shore and shaking off only to leap in once more.

“He will chase away all the fish,” said Night Storm.

As they ate, she began her questions with ones about his family, learning that his father, Many Coups, was one of the chief warriors of his tribe and the head of his medicine society. Every tribe had secret warrior societies and their business was never shared with women. Just as women had rites and ceremonies kept secret from the men. Red Corn Woman had born Many Coups three children. His brother, the oldest, had already taken a wife from the Wind Basin people who bore him a son. Night Storm also had two younger sisters, six years his junior at seventeen winters and another who was fourteen winters and already a woman.

Skylark realized that at twenty-three winters, Night Storm was three years her senior.