Tender Taming Page 3

  Although confident that she was attractive and cut a pleasant appearance, she just didn’t know if anyone would ever refer to her as enticing. She had entered marriage with shy eagerness, sure that she would discover the sensual pleasures of life and love. She had been sadly disappointed. To staid Gerry, the act of love was performed without fanfare, never spoken of and indulged in only in darkened rooms. Like an anachronism from the past, Gerry believed that sexual release was something needed strictly by males and that passion in a woman hinted of sheer wantonness.

  Embarrassed and humiliated, ignorant and young, Whitney had buried her own feelings, the hint of desire she had learned and the fantasy yearnings she was convinced were abnormal. After their friendly divorce, she had remained cool and untouched, convinced that there was nothing to be found in the many overtures she had received and rebuffed.

  But now her mind turned to her host. If she was ever to have such a man, she wouldn’t know what to do with him! She would be too frightened of her own inadequacy ever to come to the point of … Stop! she silently wailed. What on earth was possessing her? She was a career woman, authoritative in her own world. The man outside was a stranger—educated and cultured, maybe, but still a stranger! Hostility had flared between them more than any other recognizable emotion. She didn’t even know his name!

  That thought stopped her, her hand pausing on the water fixture. Glancing at the curtain, she straightened and tentatively called, “Excuse me!”

  “Yes?” the velvety baritone inquired politely.

  “I just realized I’m standing in your shower and I don’t even know your name,” Whitney warbled apologetically.

  There was silence for so long that she began to wonder if he had heard her. Just as she opened her mouth to speak again, she heard a soft rustling at the curtain and another throaty chuckle.

  “My name is Eagle,” he said quietly. “In the Seminole Nation I am known as White Eagle.”

  There was silence beyond the curtain. Whitney turned the spigot, and the refreshingly icy water cascaded over her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  EMERGING FROM THE SHOWER fifteen minutes later, remarkably refreshed and respectably if awkwardly clad in the red flannel shirt, which reached her knees, Whitney discovered that White Eagle seriously intended to give her lessons. He had shed his own muddy shirt, and his broad chest gleamed a golden bronze as he sat crossed-legged at the hand-carved coffee table, his attention focused on an assortment of books and maps. Hearing her approach, he patted a spot beside him on the deerskin rug and smiled. “If you’re going to meet with old Jonathan Stewart and tell him how to run a swamp and improve the lot of the Indians, you’d better go in with a little background information,” he told her, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “And since you seem to like muck walks in the rain, we’d better start with the environment!”

  Hiding another flush by furiously toweling her wet hair, Whitney sank down beside him, annoyed at the erratic thumping of her heart caused by the proximity of his bare flesh. Her lashes fluttering over the soft skin of her cheeks, she nonchalantly agreed. “All right, White Eagle, I may seem a fool to you, but I am eager to learn. And I really do intend to do all that I can to help the Seminoles and the Micco—Micco—”

  “Miccosukees,” Eagle supplied, his grin broadening. Handing her an expensive new hardcover book, he added, “This will explain the different tribes that make up the Seminole Nation. You can take that and read it at your leisure. The information is important, but it won’t save your life if you do any more swamp walking.”

  “I can’t take your book!” Whitney protested, ignoring his taunt. To an Indian living in the Glades in a one-room cabin, the cost must have been prohibitive!

  White Eagle shrugged. “Return it to Stewart, then. Now—on to venomous snakes.” He opened another book and pointed to the four large pictures of the creatures that spanned the pages. “These are the four fellows you have to worry about in this part of the country—the coral snake, the eastern diamondback, the pygmy rattler and the water moccasin. These guys”—he pointed to the black moccasin—“are the ones that might have gotten you tonight. They are swamp dwellers and highly aggressive. The coral snake has the most toxic venom, but its bite is tight and it can only sink its fangs into areas of flesh such as that between the fingers and toes. You won’t see many of the diamondbacks if any; drainage has sent them north. The pygmy is numerous, but he’s a hammock boy; he prefers the high pine lands.”

  A shudder rippled through Whitney as she listened to his cool dissertation. She had been a far greater fool than she had imagined! The thought of one of the vipers finding her bare feet in the muck was numbing. Swallowing, she glanced sheepishly at White Eagle, who had grown silent. His unnerving crystal gaze was speculatively upon her, and she hurriedly looked back at the book. “I can see them in the pictures,” she said quickly, “but what do I do if I run into a snake outside? Ask him to hold still so that I can study his markings and compare them to the book?”

  “No,” Eagle said quietly, refusing to respond to her nervous sarcasm. “You watch out for any snake. Most of them will give a nasty bite if aggravated.” Flopping open another book, he resumed his brisk, educational tone. “Alligator here, crocodile there. Notice the difference in the snouts. Both can be found in the Glades, alligators in the freshwater, inland regions; crocodiles in the outlying, mangrove island regions—that’s coastal. Both can be nasty and aggressive, but if left alone, they tend to go their own way.” Turning pages slowly, he went on to point out the Florida bear, panther and deer, mentioning a few traits of each. By the time the book snapped closed, Whitney had become deeply immersed in the pleasant drone of his voice and was sorry that her lesson had come to an end.

  “More coffee?” he inquired suddenly. “Or if you like, I can make tea.”

  “Coffee would be fine,” Whitney replied quickly, once more terribly conscious of his broad, bare chest so close beside her. The rippling gold skin was smooth and tight, completely devoid of hair. Not an inch of skin could be pinched from his form, and Whitney longed to reach out and touch it and feel the sleekness. Whoa, she told herself, suddenly dizzy and keenly aware of his clean, masculine scent. Time to move!

  Stumbling in her haste, Whitney tripped over her own feet as she tried to rise from her crossed-leg position. A strong hand immediately snaked out to steady her.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, lowering her lashes and walking gingerly to the window. White Eagle silently rose after her and calmly began to prepare a new pot of coffee.

  Leaning her forehead against the cool pane of glass, Whitney stared out into the black night. What an unusual trick of fate the evening had played upon her! Little more than an hour ago the Glades and its inhabitants had been but words and pictures in her mind. She had inadvertently stumbled into a situation that was proving more educational than any book had ever been. That she had to appreciate. The strange things that the remarkable Indian was doing to her unraveling composure were another matter entirely …

  White Eagle was watching his surprise guest, assessing her with a curiosity that would have stunned Whitney were she to know its cause. His crystal gaze softened momentarily; she looked like a beautiful, woebegone child as she stared out the window, her hair drying and fluffing around the delicate contours of her creamy face; her arms clasped tightly around a slender form that seemed incredibly petite beneath the drooping tails of his huge shirt. Then White Eagle stiffened imperceptibly; his gaze hardened again to that of a glittering gem. She was accepting his hospitality and responding with intelligence to the lessons he had attempted to give her. But she had a job to do, and that was where her interest lay. Every aspect of her—her poise, her dainty appearance, her chic though destroyed clothing—all spoke of spoiled affluence. Her attitude was condescendingly kind. A spark of anger ignited within him as he thought of her as yet another outsider determined to cause “beneficial change” while understanding nothing of the true problems.

  S
he turned to him suddenly with a wistful smile, and a tightness gripped his throat. God, but she was lovely!

  “Tell me,” she said with a slight shudder, “why would anyone choose to live out here in this bleakness?”

  Eagle smiled with thin lips, a motion that did not reach his eyes. He turned his back on her to pour the coffee. “The Seminoles didn’t choose to live out here originally. The name itself has two meanings: ‘runaway’ and ‘wild.’” Having poured the coffee, he sauntered over to her and continued in a biting tone. “A brief history: The Seminole and Miccosukee tribes are the descendants of the Creek Confederation—Georgia Indians. They began to migrate south in the eighteenth century, absorbing the remnants of the earlier tribes who had been mostly massacred. When Jackson became president, he determined to transplant or annihilate the Indians in Florida. The Seminole Wars began. Some of the clans signed treaties and allowed themselves to be shipped west. Others refused to be conquered. They fled further and further south, forced to the sanctuary of the swamp. They learned to live with it, adapt to it and appreciate the beauty of it. It became their land; they never surrendered to the United States government. And that, young lady, is why land simply cannot be stolen any longer. Warriors can no longer take the battle to the field, but the people can wage war in the courts with the rights of the citizens they have become!”

  Whitney found that she had backed herself into the wall as his speech had grown more intense and vehement. He had actually advanced upon her with barely controlled anger, his hands tight fists around his cup. If his blue eyes and cultured voice had lulled her into believing him to be harmless, his proud, towering fury now dictated otherwise. She could well imagine his eyes flashing within the noble countenance of his carved features if he was challenged or angered.

  He stepped back abruptly, aware that his menace had caused her eyes to open with fearful alarm. “Sorry,” he murmured, his voice returning to its cool, controlled baritone.

  Whitney drew a deep breath. “I think I understand—”

  “Do you?” The interjection was contemptuously cold.

  “Well, yes, damnit!” Whitney countered. “And I don’t want to steal anyone’s land! I want to see that the Indians lead better lives—”

  “Better than what?”

  “Than what they lead now! I want to improve their living conditions—”

  “Oh? And what are those conditions?”

  “Well … ”

  “You don’t know a thing about it!” White Eagle muttered disgustedly, pacing across the room and dropping to the sofa, one barefooted, jeaned leg crossed in an L over the other. “Here we have her, folks, Miss Southern Homecoming Queen, ready to change the lot of the Indian without mussing her hair or dirtying a single polished nail!”

  “How dare you judge me!” Whitney gasped, her temper frayed to a reckless breaking point. Stalking him in return, she followed him to the couch and glared down at him furiously, her eyes snapping with bright emerald lights. “You don’t know a thing about me. I’m from the city, yes, and I have a great deal to learn. But who the hell are you to decide that I don’t plan to investigate what I’m doing? You’re sitting here in a log cabin, content and comfortable! You’re not living in one of those thatched-roof things—”

  “Chickee,” Eagle interrupted, and Whitney saw that his anger had dissipated and that he was hiding the twitch of a smile again. “The thatched homes are called chickees.”

  “Whatever!” Whitney sighed with exasperation. “I don’t see you living in one.”

  “Ah, but I have, and that’s the difference,” he told her gravely. “Would you mind not ranting right above me?” He pointed to her hand, which held the cup and had been gesturing with emotion. “I’d just as soon not have the contents of that thing spilled all over me.”

  Deflated, Whitney glanced at her cup and spun away from him, still ready to do battle despite his sudden change from anger to amusement. “I repeat—you are no one to judge me. You are obviously half white, well educated and not too immediately concerned with the hardships—”

  “Stop!” he ordered, a grim smile curved into the thin line of his lips. “Let’s start over. Make a peace treaty.” Setting his cup on the coffee table, he indicated that she should sit beside him, and when she warily complied, he twisted so that his long legs were folded beneath him and one arm stretched along the rear of the couch. Crooking it, he rested his head lightly upon the knuckles of his hand in order to give her his complete, undivided and interested attention. “Okay, now,” he teased mockingly, “tell me what you would do.”

  Whitney returned his crystal stare unwaveringly. “I would give these people homes. I would build schools. I would—”

  “You would civilize them,” Eagle interjected softly.

  It wasn’t an angry or a mocking comment. Whitney puckered her brows with confusion. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Eagle raised one dark brow and shook his head slightly. “Never mind. I believe that your intentions are good, but you are lacking one basic understanding.”

  “And what is that?” Whitney demanded.

  “It is not something that can be told,” Eagle told her. “It must be learned and absorbed. It has to be lived.”

  “Great!” Whitney sneered. “You’re telling me that I need to learn something, then you’re telling me that I will never learn it!”

  “I did not say that.”

  “Well, what do you want me to do?” she exploded, unconsciously tilting her chin to an arrogant angle. “Die and come back to life as an Indian?”

  “Hardly.” Eagle’s bright eyes were dancing devilishly. “I want you to get to know the Seminoles and Miccosukees. So far all you’ve told me you know is that the Indians live in grass hovels and wrestle alligators, and that to improve their deplorable lot, you would put them into rows of whitewashed houses away from this ‘bleak’ swamp.”

  “Well?” Whitney snapped curtly. “Is it bad that I want to offer them nice homes on dry land?”

  “It is bad that you patronize!” Eagle growled, his features rigid. “If you see J. E. Stewart with an attitude like that, you’ll be spending the next decade in court.”

  “I’ll handle J. E. Stewart, thank you,” Whitney said acidly. “But I will find out more about the life-styles—”

  “And how are you going to do that?”

  “I’ll visit the damn villages, of course, you idiot!” Pure exasperation had driven Whitney to the crude name-calling; that and a profound desire to wipe the arrogant cynicism from his eyes.

  “Idiot?” Both brows raised in a high, black arch. Muscles flexed involuntarily across the expanse of his chest and down the length of his arms. Whitney shrank into the couch, regretting her snide comment and fearing that she might have incited him to violence. He stretched a hand to touch her cheek and she unwittingly emitted a small cry of fear. The tension left White Eagle’s eyes and he chuckled. “I’m not going to hurt you.” His thumb, rough and calloused, traced a pattern along her jawline, and Whitney quivered, not from fear but from the simple yet delicious sensation of the tender gesture.

  “Idiot, huh?” he repeated with a laugh. Such a fine thing she was! Like a delicate, porcelain doll. Yet as he watched her liquid gaze upon him, tremulous but full of defiance, self-righteousness and determination, he was overcome by a sense of possessive curiosity. A strange longing really to know the woman beneath the elegant trappings gripped him painfully. At the same time he wanted to break her of the proud superiority she insinuated in so many ways.

  Of course, he could easily do that with a few words. But then he would never know …

  A full, satanic smile broke across his face, highlighting his eyes with a handsome, rakish glow. Whitney stared at him incredulously, certain she was dealing with a madman.

  “What is the matter with you?” she queried crossly. “One minute you look as if you’re going to snap my head off, and the next thing I know you’re finding me vastly amusing!”

&
nbsp; “Nothing, nothing!” White Eagle assured her quickly. “I just had a tremendous idea.” Gripping both her small hands within his large ones, he began to quiz her. “You don’t have to see Stewart until next week, right?”

  “Right, but how did you know?”

  “You mentioned it earlier,” Eagle said quickly. “I’m assuming you’re over twenty-one and on your own, right?”

  “Right—”

  “No husband?”

  “No, I’m divorced—”

  “Good! And you seriously want to do what is best for the Indians?”

  “Of course!”

  “You want to understand them and their way of life?”

  “Yes, I told you that—”

  “Well, then, Miss Latham,” he said smugly, “I am going to help you. I will take you to meet the Miccosukees as you never would purchasing souvenirs from a roadside stand. By the time you meet with Stewart, you will have a very clear and concise picture of just what the Indians do and do not need.”

  He was quite serious, Whitney realized, but she was more confused by him than ever. “Do you mean you’re going to take me to meet your family? That—”

  “Not meet them,” Eagle interrupted. “Live with them, as one of them.”

  “What?” Whitney shrieked. “You want me to go live in a grass … a grass …”

  “Hovel?” Eagle suggested with amusement.

  “A grass house!” Whitney shot him a nasty glance and clicked her teeth together. “You spent half an hour telling me how foolish I was to wander into the swamp and now you want me to stay in it with the snakes and alligators and—oh, Lord!—the mosquitoes and spiders and—”

  “Yes, I see that you’re right,” Eagle interrupted coldly. “You’d never make it. Miss Virginia might crack a nail.”