Sundancer's Woman Read online

  A SIMPLE KISS

  He chuckled and touched her lips again. Then, to her utter shock, he lingered there and kissed her with slow, infinite tenderness.

  Elizabeth gave a tiny cry as white heat seared her mouth and flashed over her body. Her knees lost their strength, and she swayed against him. Unconsciously, her arms slipped around his neck and she pulled him closer.

  How could anything feel so wonderful? His slow, sensual caress was unlike anything she had ever known or imagined. She had dreamed that a man might kiss her ... might hold her close to his heart, but she’d never guessed that it could send rippling sensations from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.

  Her mouth seemed to fit his perfectly. There was no awkwardness ... no hesitation. Without a single lesson, she knew instinctively to tilt her head just a little ... to moisten her lips. And his kisses ... his kisses took her breath away ...

  Books by Judith E. French

  MOONFEATHER

  HIGHLAND MOON

  MOON DANCER

  SHAWNEE MOON

  FORTUNE’S MISTRESS

  FORTUNE’S FLAME

  FORTUNE’S BRIDE

  SUNDANCER’S WOMAN

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  SUNDANCER’S WOMAN

  JUDITH E. FRENCH

  eKensington

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  A SIMPLE KISS

  Books by Judith E. French

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  For Susan Powter and the members of her original “Moving” exercise class. Thank you for giving me back my life.

  And special thanks to my friend and editor, Ellen Edwards. Without her help, this book couldn’t have been written.

  There is in every true woman’s heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity.

  WASHINGTON IRVING

  Prologue

  Albany, New York Colony

  May 1755

  It was the worst day of her entire life!

  Elizabeth Anne Fleming, sister to the bridegroom and oldest daughter of Sir John Fleming of Charles Town, fled from the reception, her cheeks burning with shame. Hot tears stung her eyes and nearly blinded her as she dashed down the brick walk that led through the Van Meers’ formal gardens and into an orchard. A low-hanging branch caught her broad-brimmed, beribboned hat; she tore off the hat, flung it aside, and kept running.

  Beyond the perfectly spaced rows of apple trees was a split-rail fence encircling a meadow. Elizabeth didn’t hesitate. Heedless of her azure silk gown and matching satin slippers, she girded up her petticoats and climbed the fence, then flung herself facedown in the fragrant clover and pounded the ground with clenched fists.

  “It’s not fair!” Not only was she losing her favorite brother to Sophia Van Meer, a girl Elizabeth considered a featherbrained jade, but she herself had been made a laughingstock in front of the entire wedding reception. The cruel incident played over and over in her mind. Sophia and Pieter’s words were louder in her memory than the faint strains of fiddles coming from the manor house.

  “Pieter, why don’t you ask little Elizabeth to dance?” Sophia had coyly asked her seventeen-year-old cousin, loud enough for Elizabeth and the entire bridal party to hear. “No one else has.”

  Pieter’s scornful reply had pierced Elizabeth to the heart. “That carrot-top child? I’m hardly so desperate for a partner that I’d dance with a speckle- faced colt.”

  Elizabeth ripped up a handful of fragrant clover and threw it. It was all so unfair. Fourteen was not a child. Some girls were wed at fourteen. Was it her fault if she was still as slender as a boy, or if she’d been born with hateful red hair and freckles? Could she be blamed if her breasts didn’t swell out of the neckline of her gown no matter how tightly her maid pulled the laces of her stays? Or that her teeth and eyes seemed too big for her face?

  Pieter had been the only one of the Van Meers who’d been nice to her. He was so tall and handsome with his shoulder-length golden hair and Dutch-blue eyes. He’d seemed so sweet. How could he have publicly shamed her?

  Elizabeth wiped at her tear-stained face. She’d never be able to face any of them again. Why hadn’t she had the good sense to remain in Charles Town with her father and younger sisters, instead of coming here to New York Colony with Mother to take part in Avery’s wedding?

  She tried to regain her composure. Surely someone would be coming to find her. Her brother, maybe even Pieter, would apologize and beg her to come back to the festivities. “No, thank you,” she would intone with restrained dignity. “I have no wish to take part in affairs where a lady may be publicly insulted and—”

  The yelp of a dog in pain sliced through her play-acting. Always tenderhearted where animals were concerned, she forgot her own troubles and leaped to her feet. The sound had come from somewhere nearby; she was certain of it. Sophia’s little black terrier had run after her when she’d fled the wedding. She wondered if the small creature had been stung by a bee.

  “Joop?” she called. “Joop? Where are you?” Spotting a small crumpled heap in the shade of an apple tree, Elizabeth scrambled awkwardly over the rails in her ruined gown and hurried to see what was amiss.

  “Joop, you silly pup, what—” Elizabeth cried out and clapped her hand over her mouth. Sophia’s terrier lay sprawled on the moss, his eyes glazed and bulging, his lips drawn back over his teeth in a macabre grimace. A black-feathered arrow sprouted from the dog’s motionless body.

  Joop was dead. She didn’t need to touch him to know it. She’d been the one to discover her beloved grandmother dead in her bed two Christmastides ago, and Grandmama’s eyes had been open and staring just like little Joop’s. Elizabeth swallowed. Who could have done such a terrible thing to a helpless dog? “Oh, Joop,” she moaned. She reached out to touch a small, still paw, then drew back her hand.

  Suddenly, the orchard that had seemed so bright became a haunt of shadows, and prickles of fear danced along her spine. “Mother,” she murmured. “Avery.” She’d taken the first running steps toward the swirling music of a country reel when a musket shot rang out.

  She lifted her skirts and lengthened her strides, ducking apple branches as she ran. “Mother! Avery!”

  Abruptly, the music dissolved into mingled shrieks and roaring flintlocks. Elizabeth stopped short as the bride’s father appeared at the edge of the formal garden.

  “Mr. Van Meer,” she called. “What...”

  Hendrick Van Meer staggered forward and fell, an ax protruding from his back.

  “What’s happening?” Elizabeth whispered. Terror made her dizzy. Her tongue seemed stuck to the roof of
her mouth. “I don’t—”

  A near-naked Indian darted around the boxwood hedge and put a foot on Sophia’s father’s shoulder. The Iroquois’ knife blade flashed in the sunlight, and Elizabeth moaned as the savage sliced down and ripped a bloody section of hair from Van Meer’s head.

  It seemed to Elizabeth that the world had gone mad. The sweet-smelling orchard and gardens had turned to hell. Arrows flew through the air; women screamed as flintlocks boomed. There were Indians everywhere, chopping, shrieking, shooting. Wedding guests and servants ran in every direction; two Indians chased a Dutchman wearing a blood-soaked vest into the maze.

  Elizabeth didn’t want to think about what would happen to him when they caught him. She didn’t want to hear his high-pitched squeal, but she couldn’t shut out the awful sights and sounds.

  She knew she was a coward, standing frozen when she should be hunting for her mother, but her feet seemed rooted to the ground. Then a riderless horse galloped through the orchard, nearly crushing her under his hooves. At the last second, she leaped out of the way, lost her footing and fell to the ground. Facedown on the trampled grass, she inhaled the acrid scent of gunpowder and crushed green grass.

  Bloodcurdling Indian war cries reverberated from the courtyard. Elizabeth closed her eyes, and covered her ears with her hands. This wasn’t real—it couldn’t be real. She must be having a nightmare.

  Then a moccasined foot kicked hard against her hip.

  Elizabeth whimpered as she stared up into the grotesque face of a Seneca warrior. Her cry of terror died in her throat as the brave’s war-painted features twisted into a snarl, and he lifted a steel tomahawk over her head. Then she saw only darkness.

  Chapter 1

  Charles Town, South Carolina

  Summer 1764

  “Nine years? You tell me you want me to fetch home a woman who’s been a prisoner of the Seneca for nine years?” Hunt Campbell rose to his feet and folded his muscular arms over his chest. “That’s a fool’s errand,” he said softly. “I’ve been called foolhardy by some, but never stupid. I’m not the man you want for this job.”

  Sir John Fleming scowled at the tall woodsman dressed in buckskins and high fringed moccasins. “You’re hardly my idea of the right person—”

  “He’s exactly the one,” interrupted Robert Bird, the third man in the room. “My employer assures me that Hunt is your only chance. You’ve already spent years and a small fortune trying to locate Elizabeth. Hunt’s more than a scout; he has a foot in both worlds, Indian and white. He has friends among the hostile tribes, and he speaks their languages. If any white man can go into Iroquois territory and retrieve your daughter, he can.”

  Hunt frowned and glanced around the fancy parlor. Houses like this made him uncomfortable. He felt hemmed in by all the furniture, the ornate mirrors, and the silver tea service. It was a mistake to have come here, and one he wouldn’t have made if he hadn’t been desperate to earn the reward money Sir John was offering for the return of his daughter. White water and an overturned canoe had cost him every cent he’d earned in trading with the Indians the past two winters, and he was determined not to go hat in hand to his adopted father for help.

  Hunt broke the strained silence that had fallen over the room. “I wouldn’t have wasted your time if Robert had told me that your Elizabeth was lost for nine years.”

  Sir John’s mouth tightened into a thin line of displeasure. His plump, ruddy face paled to the hue of his powdered wig, and his starched lace stock cut into his thick neck until Hunt wondered how the man could draw enough wind to speak. It was plain Sir John wasn’t used to being refused by men he considered his inferiors. “What difference does time make?” he sputtered. “She’s alive. She was seen by a Catholic priest three months ago in a Seneca village south of Lake Ontario. For God’s sake, Campbell! You may have lived like an Indian, but you are white. How can you walk away from the chance to free Elizabeth? She’s hardly more than a child.”

  Hunt reached for his long rifle, taking care not to mar the polished front of the Irish hunt table it stood against. He rested the stock on the red Turkey carpet between his feet, covered the muzzle with one sinewy hand, and leaned thoughtfully on the flintlock. Choosing the right words to tell the bare truth without hurting John Fleming any more than he’d already been hurt was harder than getting a bead on a charging Comanche horseman. He kept his voice low; these townmen might squawk as loud as blue jays, but he was used to Indian habits. “Your Elizabeth’s not a child anymore,” he said. “She’s a woman grown, with Indian thoughts and Indian ways. If your daughter’s alive, that means she’s made a life for herself. Best leave her to it.”

  “Nonsense! What life could she have among savages?” Sir John demanded. “What could equal what I can offer her?” He waved his hand to indicate his grand possessions and by implication, the position he commanded in Charles Town and the colony. “Here, Elizabeth will have rank and privilege, her church, her family. What can she possibly have there?”

  The answer might be obvious to Sir John, but Hunt Campbell knew it was likely to be far from obvious or simple, in truth. Suddenly he wanted very much to know what Elizabeth Fleming would choose.

  Nearly a thousand miles to the north and west, Elizabeth Fleming settled her split-oak berry basket on the moss and lifted three-year-old Rachel over a fallen log.

  “Are there bears here, Mama?” Rachel asked. “I don’t like bears.”

  “I hope there are,” Jamie said. “If I see a bear, I’ll shoot it with my arrow. I’ll kill it and take the skin—”

  Rachel giggled at her brother. “You’re on’y six.” She held up three fingers on one hand and five on the other. “If you see a bear, he’ll eat you in one bite.”

  “He won’t! I’ll shoot him first.” Jamie mimicked drawing an imaginary arrow. “Father will give me an eagle feather for bravery.”

  Rachel snatched a blueberry from Elizabeth’s basket and threw it at Jamie.

  “Mama!” he protested.

  “Enough, both of you,” Elizabeth chided softly. “It’s too pretty a day to argue. Look, there’s a bush no one’s picked yet. Look at the ripe berries.”

  Rachel clapped her hands with excitement. “Fat ones! I’m going to eat them all.”

  “You will not,” Elizabeth said. “You’ll help me pick.”

  “Jamie pick too.” Black-eyed Rachel always had to have the last word. “Make him, Mama. Make him pick.”

  “Boys don’t pick berries,” Jamie said. “Boys hunt. Father said so. Girls pick berries.”

  His sister shook her head stubbornly. “No!”

  “Shh,” Elizabeth said. “We’ll all pick.” She smiled patiently at Jamie’s growing pout. “None of that. We’ll all pick, and I’ll tell you a story about when I was a little girl, far away in Charles Town.”

  “Tell about the pony, Mama,” Jamie urged. “Tell about the pony and I’ll help. But if I see a bear, I’m still going to kill it.”

  “If we see a bear, you’ll do exactly what I tell you to,” she admonished gently. “Some day you will be a mighty hunter like your father, but your bow is too small to kill a bear yet. You’d only make him angry, and then where would we be?”

  “I need a bigger bow,” Jamie agreed. “A giant bow.”

  “Me too,” Rachel chimed in. “Me need a bow.”

  “Girls don’t get bows,” he said.

  “Do, too!” Rachel flung back.

  “Enough of that,” Elizabeth warned. “I’ll tell about the pony, about all the ponies, and about our house and your white grandfather John, if you’ll both be very good.” She smiled at her sturdy little son. “You’re growing up so fast, Jamie. Soon you will be able to hunt with the men. I wish ...” But she let the words die away. There was no sense in spoiling a wonderful day with her children by wishing for what could never be. Her life in the South Carolina colony was gone. Elizabeth Anne Fleming was as dead as if she’d never lived. And all the happiness she’d ever know was here w
ith Rachel and Jamie in an alien world.

  Elizabeth moved her basket to a spot beside the large blueberry bush and began to pick. As she gathered the luscious blue-black fruit, she told the children about the spacious house she’d grown up in, about the carriages and the ships that rode at anchor in Charles Town Harbor. She always spoke in English to them when they were alone, even though their father forbade it and her own command of the language was unsure after so many years. It was another small rebellion against Yellow Drum, one that she’d practiced-secretly since Jamie was born.

  Rachel dropped onto her belly and wiggled under the bush, and Elizabeth couldn’t resist giving the small, brown bottom a playful pat. The little girl giggled and kicked her bare feet.

  “The story, Mama,” Jamie reminded her. Elizabeth picked up the familiar tale where she’d left off, but her thoughts today were as wayward as her children’s.

  How beautiful she is, Elizabeth thought. How beautiful they both are. How perfect! Their backs were straight, their limbs sturdy, and their faces like tiny, bronzed angels. No one would ever mistake them for English children; their eyes were as black as currants, their hair as dark as any full-blooded Indian’s, but they were hers—flesh of her flesh and blood of her blood.

  Today, both Rachel and Jamie were naked except for tiny doeskin breechcloths that covered their genitals in front and very little behind. Neither wore moccasins ; despite the rough terrain, it was safer at their tender ages to go without foot coverings.

  “A child with moccasins may wander away in the woods and be lost,” a Seneca grandmother had advised Elizabeth. “Without moccasins, stones may bruise their feet and briers may prick them, but they will not go far.”