The Warrior's Captive Bride. Jenna Kernan

eyes went wide as he held her in his sights. Had she now realized that he had not mistaken her for game but was intentionally targeting her?

      She lifted her hands and waved them before her.

      “You know me. I am Crow!” Her voice rose in volume and pitch on her last word.

      “I know you.” He held the bow steady.

      She shook her head, her expression bewildered.

      “Witch. Remove the curse,” he said.

      “What?”

      “Witch! You cursed me.”

      Her head shook from side to side. “I am not a witch.”

      “It is what a witch would say. Remove the curse or I will shoot.”

      Her eyes narrowed, sparkling bright as she fixed them upon him, and for just a moment he feared she would bring on another spell. But his vision remained clear and he heard no ringing in his ears.

      “Even if that were true, killing a witch would not end a curse.”

      That made him hesitate. He had not expected the witch to do anything but what he asked. Why did she not fall to her knees and weep like an ordinary woman? Instead, she met his gaze with an unwavering one.

      His grip tightened on the bow, but his conviction faltered.

      “The spell you had here in the forest. You think I caused that?”

      “And the ones that have followed.”

      “Why would I do that?” she asked.

      “Witches need no reason to curse a man.”

      “Of course they do.”

      “You knew that I would take you with me, so you stopped me.” Doubts filled him. Was this just another trick?

      She scowled as if his words angered her. “You say I did this thing. Now, I will tell you what I did do. When you fell, I went to you and put you on your side so you would not choke on your blood. I put your bag under your head, to protect you from striking the ground.’

      He stared, not knowing what to believe. Although the tension in the flexed bow urged him to release his arrow, he pointed it at the ground.

      “Did you find your horse tied to a tree?”

      He had.

      Astonishment filled him. All she said was so. He had awakened on the ground beside his dog with his bag under his head like a pillow. The buffalo skin he used as a saddle blanket covered his body and his horse had waited patiently for him, saddle hanging over a branch by his side.

      She lifted her chin as if he had answered her.

      He released the tension of his bow, easing it back to rest but keeping the arrow notched.

      “If I meant you harm, why did your dog not attack me then or now? I have not cursed you. I have saved you.”

      “You are not a witch?”

      “I am a medicine woman and the daughter of a heyoka. I heal with bark, roots and growing things. I help people as I helped you. I do not curse them.”

      His skin turned to gooseflesh again. He slung his bow over his shoulder and returned the arrow to the quiver on his back. If he needed a weapon, his ax and his knife were close at hand and he could throw both with deadly accuracy. Neither, however, could defend against magic.

      “Have you asked your medicine man to help you?” asked Skylark.

      He had not. Because to do so was to admit to all that he was no longer a man.

      “I do not need medicine. I need only find the one who has cursed me.”

      “You could come with me to my home and consult with our medicine man. Spirit Bear is very powerful.”

      He would not be seeing her shaman, either. Word would travel from her village to his at the winter gathering, and he would lose his place as a warrior of the Black Lodges. That was his deepest fear. He must keep this secret and find a cure.

      His gaze fixed on this medicine woman.

      Could she help him?

      She paused and glanced in the direction of her village. Then she bit her bottom lip. The act sent a growling need through him that took him by surprise. When she cast her gaze back to him, his skin felt hot and prickly. He recognized that now she wove a different kind of spell. He knew it instantly, though he had not felt it with any other woman. But he had experienced it once before, the first time he had spoken to her, alone, in the forest digging roots. It was elk madness, the love sickness which was the cause of much foolishness by many great men. This was why a man, a serious man, with many coups and a reputation of profound honor, could follow after a pretty woman, playing his flute for her at night and pursuing her like an elk in rut. This power was just as strong as bewitchment and he did not want it. Not with this woman.

      She stooped over to pet his dog, her elegant fingers gliding over Frost’s short coat. He could see the outline of her full breasts and the curve of her flank. She was perfect in his eyes, which brought him back to his original worry. What if she was Double-Faced Woman?

      “How do I know you are not a spirit?” he asked her.

      She glanced up from his dog and laughed. “What?”

      But her smile dropped away and her hand left the dog’s head as she looked at him. Did his expression reveal the real seriousness of his question? Skylark drew out her skinning knife from the elaborately quilled sheath she wore about her neck. She lifted the knife and her left hand, and nicked the round flesh at the base of her thumb. Immediately she bled.

      She extended her hand to show him.

      His shoulders sagged with relief. Spirits did not bleed. He rested a hand on the bone grip of his iron knife.

      She glanced at her bleeding hand and returned her knife to the sheath. Then she searched in her bag and retrieved only a sprig of leaves, which she crushed, rolled into a ball and pressed to her wound. Making a fist, she held the poultice in place.

      He reached out and captured one of her wrists. With a little tug he brought her tight against him, her soft curves contacting his chest. The sensation was like diving into cold water. His body felt charged and alive. She did not struggle. In an instant he had her hands gathered in one of his own and pinned behind her back.

      “Can you remove the curse?”

      She lifted her chin. “What kind of curse? Were you cursed by an enemy in battle? Or are you haunted by a ghost? Or perhaps you have had unclean relations with someone? All these could bring you to this place.”

      He did not know. “I have not had unclean relations. But I have killed enemies. Many.”

      He wanted to leave her here. But more than that he wanted to press their hips together, fall upon the green grass and taste the sweetness of her body. His heart galloped as the musky scent of her rose all about him in a different kind of spell.

      This attraction that he had felt for her on first sight was even stronger now. He stared at her beautiful flushed face and the full, parted lips where her breath came in erratic little pants. Was that her reaction to him or the fear? And then she shifted, moving their hips closer and pressing herself to him. He should have known. This one did not show fear. But her desire was clear. He did not trust her. Those things they said about her, that she was odd and dangerous and could heal or kill, he now thought they might be true.

      Night Storm thrust her away. The poultice had fallen off, but already the bleeding had stopped.

      “How do you know about ghosts and taboos?”

      “I am learning about such things. I have learned all I can from the wisest women in our tribe. I wish there were someone who knew more than I do, so I could...find cures for the incurables.”

      Was