Rain Bear seemed to be staring at her hair. At the way the light glittered through it when she moved. Absently, he said, “Every man is vulnerable, Evening Star. Is there anyone else he cares about? Perhaps a relative in one of the nearby North Wind villages?”
She lifted a shoulder, perplexed by the softness in his eyes. “I don’t think so. He seems to hate everyone except his son. And I’m not even sure about that. I’ve heard that he beats the boy.”
As he had beaten her. Evening Star glanced away as a flashback of Ecan stabbed through her memory. She remembered the ripping sound as he tore the fabric dress off her body, and she could feel his hot flesh against hers as he pried her legs apart. Flickers of firelight in her lodge mixed with those of a burning village. An unbidden shiver ran up her spine.
“Matron, I must go, but I thank you for speaking honestly with me.”
She jerked a nod. “If I can be of help again …”
He inclined his head, said, “I will,” and walked for the door.
Thankfully he was gone before her knees went weak and she sagged to the floor. Behind her clamped eyes, memories ran free and terrible.
Rain Bear stepped out into the fog and looked around. Bark lodges wavered in the mist. On either side of him, Evening Star’s guards cast curious glances his way. They undoubtedly questioned his sanity for granting asylum to such a potentially dangerous woman.
Although he’d almost convinced himself she wasn’t a spy, he couldn’t be absolutely certain. Was he supposed to be attracted to her? Was that the trap? Well, may Fishing Eagle strike him dead, he was. He just couldn’t get the image of her odd blue eyes out of his head, and he had been dazzled by the firelight shooting burnished copper glints through her luxurious hair. He’d fought with the desire to reach out and touch it. Touch her.
When she moved, he had to make a conscious effort to keep from staring at the way her dress conformed to her round breasts and slim waist. Her soft and slim body had begun to insert itself into his waking Dreams. Those he could control. How long before her image invaded his sleep to tease his manhood?
Had his enemies bet that her very presence would be enough to make him drop his guard?
Eleven
Though it was well past midnight, neither Pitch nor Dzoo could sleep. Snow gusted out of the darkness in glittering white veils to soak Pitch’s cape and the tangles of hair that crept out beyond his conical hat. They had left Antler Spoon’s village immediately, trudged through the snow for four hands of time, and finally made camp in this grove of alders near Black Rock Creek. Water trickled beneath a thin crust of ice two body lengths away, sweet and melodic.
Pitch smoothed his fingers over his wet teacup and studied Dzoo. She sat across the smoking fire from him, eyes focused on their back trail as though she expected to see a war party at any instant.
An exotically beautiful woman, she drew a man’s eye. Pitch couldn’t say why exactly, but he caught himself staring at the curved hollow of her cheek, at the full red swell of her lips. A man might flounder in those large dark eyes. Her brow, high and smooth, balanced her upturned nose, pointed chin, and delicate jaw. But her long hair was her crown. In bright sun, it was a deep red with golden highlights, but in the firelight tonight, it glinted like polished red cedar. Though Dzoo had seen two tens and nine summers, she had never borne children; her body was still perfect, her breasts, small waist, and long legs the stuff of male fantasy.
Pitch smiled at that, aware that he liked to fantasize about her. Dzoo was a perpetual enigma, more a creature of other worlds than this one. He could see it in the way she walked, almost floating above the soil, each step placed with a feline grace. An unsettling energy flowed through her, around her, and into her. Something she could project through a look or a touch. In her presence, no one was complacent. Being close to her reminded Pitch of sitting on a peak during a lightning storm. He could feel his skin prickling and his hair starting to stand on end.
“I am not lightning,” she whispered as she remained motionless.
Pitch swallowed hard, wondering where that had come from. “Did you hear my thoughts?”
She just gave him the vaguest of smiles. The silence of the night began to press down around them.
“Who do you think this ‘Coyote’ is?” Pitch smoothed his hand over his wooden cup. As the snowflakes struck the warm surface, they melted and ran down to pool around his fingers.
Dzoo’s eyes fixed on some point out in the snow and held, motionless. She might not have heard.
Pitch took a long drink of his tea, then tugged his cape more tightly about his shoulders. “Do you think he’s one of the Raven People?”