Page 14 of The Spirit of the Wolf

Unless she were a part of this. And she could not very well be. His guess, which had involved her, had been incorrect.

Hunhe-hunhe, she was a mere distraction. Nothing more, nothing less. And the sooner he returned her to her own people, the better.

At the next trading post—which was less than a moon away—he would leave her there. In the meantime, he would do well to keep his honor, to behave himself and put distance between them, for she seemed to be made for temptation.

A temptation he could not indulge.

But even as he thought it, his arm tightened around her, and he pulled her in toward him. Taking a deep breath, he sighed.

Marietta became aware gradually that she was drenched, and she was getting wetter by the minute. Large raindrops hit her forehead, her neck and breast. Had she fallen under a waterfall, or had the mud hut washed out to the river?

It was with a shock she realized she had no recollection of what had happened or where she was. How had she come to be leaning against another human being? Slowly, she drew in her breath, and without daring to move her head—which had fallen back on a muscular shoulder—she opened her eyes and peeked downward.

Sure enough, she was sitting astride a horse, and there was an arm around her middle…a buckskin-clad arm. Curiously, she studied the brown-tanned hand of her captor, noting the long fingers…fingers that held her tightly within their grasp.

This was not the hand of Jacques LaCroix.

Where was she?

Gradually, gently, so as not to alert the one who held her, she turned her head to the side, glancing upward at her captor’s face.

She gasped aloud.

“Careful,” said a male voice in English, his words colored with an unusual accent. He gazed down at her. “You might frighten the horses.”

Horses?

Again, she chanced a glance upward. This time she sat upright and screamed.

It was an Indian holding her, one who was painted for war, or at least he might have been once upon a time. The paint was almost gone now, rivulets of it running down his face.

The man sighed before he said, on a note that held little patience, “If you must wail like a child now that you are awake, I will have to place a cloth around your mouth. I fear that if you scream again, you will scare the horses.”

Scare the horses? What about her?

Where was she? Who was this man? Where was LaCroix? Yellow Swan? What had happened?

She couldn’t remember anything, except an early morning, Jacques LaCroix offering her coffee, and…

“He…he…” As the previous events fell quickly into place, she stumbled on her words, fearing to speak. After a moment, she could no longer hold her tongue. “You…you drugged me.”

“I have committed no such act against you,” said the man, whose arm still remained around her, as though to steady her.

“No, but you managed to bribe my guide to do it for you, didn’t you?”

“Hiya. You are upset. This is to be expected, but do not accuse me of doing deeds which I have not done.”

It was odd. The man’s voice, sounding quietly bored, seemed to reach out to her. And although it calmed her, Marietta was beyond such tactics. “If your words were true, then why am I here?” She scooted forward as well as she could, trying to put distance between her hips and this man’s. But the pony was small.

“Before he put you to sleep, did your husband not tell you all that was to happen?”

“Husband?”

“Hau, husband.”

Marietta shook her head, hoping to clear her thoughts. Had she gone to sleep only to awaken in a different time and place?

When she shot another glance behind her to better see her enemy, her eyes met those the exact color of the blackest night. Her stomach dropped.