tree root?
Snake!
No! No!
Zeke! … can’t move . . . can’t breathe. . . .
“Shet up, girlie, or Zeke’ll have ta hug ya to deaf.”
Behind him… an Indian! Garishly painted, moving without sound … reaching for Zeke’s scraggly hair. A feathered tomahawk slicing through the air.
A grisly tool of death aimed for his head.
Scream!
Scream of death.
Luc turned his head, his alert gaze searching for his knife. It lay where he had left it, on the table in the center of the room — another foolish error in judgement that he had no time to berate himself for at the moment. He could depend only on his own strength and a surprise attack.
Exhaustion forgotten, Luc whipped back the concealing furs, turned and threw himself on top of his intruder. He straddled the body beneath his and pulled the arms above the head.
Linsey’s nightmare turned to harsh reality as the breath exploded from her lungs. She struggled against his immense weight, trying to free her hands from his hold.
Luc judged that his captive’s strength fell far short of his own, and in the flickering light he let his gaze roam. His eyes widened in amazement, and his hold slackened. A woman!
“Mon dieu ,” he whispered in the French of his childhood. ”What are you doing in my bed, little one?”
Too frightened to hear him, Linsey knew that she must fight for her life. A man, too large to be Zeke, was holding her down. That he spoke both English and French did not register in her mind. To her he had to be the thing she most feared … an Indian.
Taking advantage of the momentary easing of his hold, Linsey freed one hand and raked it down his chest. She twisted and turned, her hair streaming out around her, flipping over her face so that she could not see her captor.
Too startled to respond quickly, Luc looked down at his chest and the ragged trails of blood made by her fingernails. He grunted when her closed fist landed with surprising force in the center of his stomach. Grabbing her wildly flailing arm, he pulled it back with the other one above her head. The heaving of her slender body hardly moved his, and he leisurely studied her.
Even in the murky light it would have been impossible for him not to notice her hair. It was magnificent: a summer sunset of reds and golds; autumn leaves in the glory of full color; tarnished copper promising untold beauty. He searched for a description and could not find it. Her hair was a little of each and yet none.
An artist would despair never finding the shades and hues to paint it on canvas.
Her face was molded with delicate features, a tiny, slightly upturned nose and a light dusting of freckles across her cheeks. He longed to see the color of her eyes beneath the finely arched brows. His gaze drifted lower, to the creamy skin of her full breasts. Her chest rose and fell rapidly from her struggles, and he felt himself hardening as he dwelt on the tender buds peeking through the strands of long hair. He wanted to put his lips on them and sample their sweetness. Lower still was her narrow waist, gently rounded hips and flat stomach. His manhood throbbed with a life of its own when he realized it was nestled against the soft curls of her femininity.
“Tukwahkee Sh’kotai, Autumn Fire,” he whispered in Shawnee, his voice harsh with sudden longing. “Are you a gift from some god to warm my long, cold winter nights?”
Linsey heard his voice, and her fear intensified, nearing the breaking point. She no longer doubted that he was an Indian. The terrible tortures her cousin had hinted at were about to befall her. She stiffened, searching beyond her terror for hidden strength. If he planned to torture her, she might not be able to hide pain, but he would never see her fear.
Luc gasped when she opened her eyes … green eyes, sparkling with the vibrant color of emeralds or new leaves of spring. Again he was left wanting a description.
Linsey’s defiant gaze saw hair as blue-black as a raven’s
Snake!
No! No!
Zeke! … can’t move . . . can’t breathe. . . .
“Shet up, girlie, or Zeke’ll have ta hug ya to deaf.”
Behind him… an Indian! Garishly painted, moving without sound … reaching for Zeke’s scraggly hair. A feathered tomahawk slicing through the air.
A grisly tool of death aimed for his head.
Scream!
Scream of death.
Luc turned his head, his alert gaze searching for his knife. It lay where he had left it, on the table in the center of the room — another foolish error in judgement that he had no time to berate himself for at the moment. He could depend only on his own strength and a surprise attack.
Exhaustion forgotten, Luc whipped back the concealing furs, turned and threw himself on top of his intruder. He straddled the body beneath his and pulled the arms above the head.
Linsey’s nightmare turned to harsh reality as the breath exploded from her lungs. She struggled against his immense weight, trying to free her hands from his hold.
Luc judged that his captive’s strength fell far short of his own, and in the flickering light he let his gaze roam. His eyes widened in amazement, and his hold slackened. A woman!
“Mon dieu ,” he whispered in the French of his childhood. ”What are you doing in my bed, little one?”
Too frightened to hear him, Linsey knew that she must fight for her life. A man, too large to be Zeke, was holding her down. That he spoke both English and French did not register in her mind. To her he had to be the thing she most feared … an Indian.
Taking advantage of the momentary easing of his hold, Linsey freed one hand and raked it down his chest. She twisted and turned, her hair streaming out around her, flipping over her face so that she could not see her captor.
Too startled to respond quickly, Luc looked down at his chest and the ragged trails of blood made by her fingernails. He grunted when her closed fist landed with surprising force in the center of his stomach. Grabbing her wildly flailing arm, he pulled it back with the other one above her head. The heaving of her slender body hardly moved his, and he leisurely studied her.
Even in the murky light it would have been impossible for him not to notice her hair. It was magnificent: a summer sunset of reds and golds; autumn leaves in the glory of full color; tarnished copper promising untold beauty. He searched for a description and could not find it. Her hair was a little of each and yet none.
An artist would despair never finding the shades and hues to paint it on canvas.
Her face was molded with delicate features, a tiny, slightly upturned nose and a light dusting of freckles across her cheeks. He longed to see the color of her eyes beneath the finely arched brows. His gaze drifted lower, to the creamy skin of her full breasts. Her chest rose and fell rapidly from her struggles, and he felt himself hardening as he dwelt on the tender buds peeking through the strands of long hair. He wanted to put his lips on them and sample their sweetness. Lower still was her narrow waist, gently rounded hips and flat stomach. His manhood throbbed with a life of its own when he realized it was nestled against the soft curls of her femininity.
“Tukwahkee Sh’kotai, Autumn Fire,” he whispered in Shawnee, his voice harsh with sudden longing. “Are you a gift from some god to warm my long, cold winter nights?”
Linsey heard his voice, and her fear intensified, nearing the breaking point. She no longer doubted that he was an Indian. The terrible tortures her cousin had hinted at were about to befall her. She stiffened, searching beyond her terror for hidden strength. If he planned to torture her, she might not be able to hide pain, but he would never see her fear.
Luc gasped when she opened her eyes … green eyes, sparkling with the vibrant color of emeralds or new leaves of spring. Again he was left wanting a description.
Linsey’s defiant gaze saw hair as blue-black as a raven’s
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