Witch Dance by Peggy Webb Page A

erotic.
    “I’m a doctor. I can tend my own wounds.”
    His eyes trapped hers as he traced the reddened path of the nail from elbow to wrist.
    “To see such perfection marred is a desecration.”
    “You have a great bedside manner.”
    “You protest too much, Kate. Are you afraid of me?”
    “No.” She lied with her eyes sparking fire, and her chin jutted out. She was afraid of him, all right. Not afraid that he would cause pain, but that he would cause ecstasy, so much ecstasy, she would lose her purpose.
    “Even the brave are sometimes scared, Wictonaye .”
    Water touched her skin, and she realized that he’d found the thermos and a paper towel and was now washing her wounds. So powerful was her attraction that even when he left, she knew she’d still felt his presence.
    The water was soothing . . . and so was the touch of his hand upon her skin.
    “In the ancient customs of my people, the eagle is invoked for healing.” His voice flowed through her like warm honey. “They solicit him as he soars through the heavens to bring down refreshing things, to dart down quickly on wings of lightning and provide succor for the wounded.”
    He set aside the makeshift sponge without relinquishing his hold on her. Dark and deep with mysteries, he held her with his eyes as his hands continued their erotic massage.
    “The eagle is the king of birds, prodigious in strength, swift of wing, majestic in stature . . . and so full of passion that he teaches all he loves to fly.”
    His eyes never left hers as he lifted her arm to his lips.
    “ Waka ahina uno, iskunosi Wictonaye. Waka .”
    Heat seared her, but it wasn’t the heat of skin against skin: It was the heat of desire burst full flower in a strange land with a man who spoke in a poetic and mesmerizing tongue.
    “In English, please,” she whispered.
    “Fly with me, little wildcat. Fly.”
    His lips burned against her skin once more, and she trembled. It was not mere wanting that shook her, but something much more complex. He set off silent explosions under her skin, just where his fingers touched— and deeper, in secret places that had never known such primitive longing.
    Already she was flying, flying irrevocably toward the golden Eagle who had risen from the river and forever captured her soul.
    “Eagle,” she whispered.
    The passion that shimmered between them was almost palpable. Their senses were heightened so that even the air burned their skin.
    Holding her captive with his dark eyes, Eagle cupped her face, then splayed his fingers through her hair.
    “What magic do you possess, Kate . . . what witchcraft that makes me burn with the wanting of you?”
    ‘Do you burn, Eagle?
    “Yes . . . as you do. I feel the passion in your skin.”
    “It’s the heat.”
    “No, Wictonaye . Your blood is hot with the same fever that rages through mine.”
    “I have a remedy for fever . . . in my black bag.”
    “There is only one remedy for this fever, Kate. Only one.”
    Eagle leaned closer so that their bodies were partially joined—his legs pressed against hers, her shoulders bracketed by his arms, her chest barely grazing his. And in that moment the whole world rearranged itself, ripped itself from familiar moorings, and came together in fresh configuration, reborn.
    Kate knew the remedy . . . and longed for it with the single-minded greed of a newborn seeking its mother’s milk.
    She threaded her fingers through his hair and was actually pulling him toward her lips when she heard echoes of her father’s voice: You’d do well to learn to make soup.
    She backed away from Eagle and scrambled to her feet.
    “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove by riding around on that stallion, seducing women.”
    “Do I seduce you, Kate?”
    “Yes, you seduce me, running around without your shirt.” She shoved her hair back from her overheated face. “Don’t you ever wear clothes?”
    “I have no need of clothes, Wictonaye . I have nothing to hide.” He was