Defiant Ecstasy Read online

  Table of Contents

  JANELLE TAYLOR

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  CONTEMPORARY FICTION BY KATHERINE STONE

  PASSIONATE NIGHTS FROM PENELOPE NERI

  Gray Eagle watched his recaptured Alisha in the dusky light. Quietly, he walked over to where she lay on a blanket by the dying fire. Alisha gave a start when her Indian lover leaned over her, then she relaxed against him. She was finally homes

  Gray Eagle enfolded his auburn-haired beauty in his embrace, and nestled his lips in her hair. The cool night breeze kissed them as they held one another for warmth. As Gray Eagle caressed Alisha’s waist, she reached out for him. Their breathing quickened and their blood ran hotly through their veins.

  The Indian’s touch kindled raging fires in the white girl’s heart, and her senses reeled with each kiss he traced on her neck. Alisha’s senses were feverishly awakened. She knew she could no longer resist his love and surrendered herself to him in utter abandonment ...

  JANELLE TAYLOR

  ZEBRA’S BEST-SELLING AUTHOR

  DON’T MISS ANY OF HER EXCEPTIONAL, EXHILARATING, EXCITING

  ECSTASY SERIES

  Available wherever paperbacks are sold, or order direct from the Publisher. Send cover price plus 50¢ per copy for mailing and handling to: Zebra Books, Dept. 3497, 475 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10016. Residents of New York and Tennessee must include sales tax. DO NOT SEND CASH. For a free Zebra/ Pinnacle catalog please write to the above address.

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  475 Park Avenue South

  New York, NY 10016

  Copyright © 1982 by Janelle Tailor

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Sixteenth printing: May, 1992

  Printed in the United States of America

  Green-eyed, lovely Alisha Williams paced her darkened room at Fort Pierre. Ill fortune in the new land had taken all she ever loved from the English girl. And when she had finally found happiness in a man’s arms, the raging hatred between the white settlers and the red natives had snatched that from her, too.

  A raiding party from Fort Pierre had killed many in the Oglala camp of the fierce warrior Gray Eagle. But when the bluecoats discovered the captive white girl in Gray Eagle’s teepee, they rescued her and brought her back to her own people at the fort.

  In anguish, Alisha threw herself upon her bed and sobbed, they rescued me only to imprison me in their own way! Their hatred of the Indian so blinds them they cannot accept me for having been forced to live with the Oglala.

  An outcast amid her own kind, Alisha achingly yearned for her black-eyed, muscular warrior to recapture her. She longed for Gray Eagle’s slavery over the white man’s freedom . . .

  Chapter One

  It had been eighteen days since the daring raid upon Gray Eagle’s camp. Dawn had awakened the Oglala warriors with her breathtaking majesty, seeming to bestow a special blessing upon the fearless Sioux. They had quickly gotten ready and mounted up, riding to join with the other tribes from the surrounding area. They converged upon Fort Pierre, taking their positions in long and threatening lines before the sealed gates of the only fort left in that vast frontier.

  Gray Eagle assumed his place of leadership before the braves. He sat proud and erect upon his mottled Appaloosa, appearing awesome and forbidding. He sat like a pagan god of war ready to swoop down and conquer the entire world.

  Only small traces of the roseate color which had invaded the early morning sky now remained. As the sun lifted itself into the heavens, the fingers of pink slowly gave way to the rays of gold, outlining the indomitable warrior against a cobalt skyline. Its tawny hues sent shimmering rays to set the buffalo and bunch grass ablaze with golden light. The wind was nearly motionless, failing to do more than slightly sway the dried grasses. The animals and birds were silent, seeming to be momentarily suspended. It was as if all nature recognized the significance of this day and of this gathering, the day when all white intruders would be driven from Indian lands.

  Gray Eagle was dressed as a warrior in sienna-colored fringed leggins, breechcloth, and high-topped moccasins which were all heavily beaded in rich designs of red and yellow. His leather arm and wrist bands were artistically etched with scenes from his many coups. Two small sections of his ebony hair were secured into braids on either side of his mesmerizing face. The rest of his hair flowed over his powerful shoulders and down his back like a sleek mane. The heavy braids were interwoven and bound with yellow thongs. Numerous yellow feathers were in his hair, symbolizing his many deeds of courage. Around his neck was a small rawhide pouch, a medicine bag, suspended from a slender thong. He was the epitome of the greatest warrior; he was the pinnacle of manhood. And when wronged, he was the ultimate enemy.

  The Fort Pierre sentry slowly moved his fieldglasses up and down the rows of warriors, but always returned his sights to the one man who sat before the others like a king. Hell! he finally decided, it’s got to be him. He sighed and muttered, “We’ll have the devil to pay this day, if I’m right . . .”

  General Galt called up to him, “How many would you say are out there? Can you read the markings of the tribes involved? Any sign of their intentions?”

  “About two thousand, maybe more or less, Sir,” came the sentry’s reply. As he scrutinized the warriors once more, he stated, “I’d guess there are five to eight different tribes represented out there. They appear to be waiting for something. Could be for others to join them or ...” He halted and gaped at the scene before him, for that was when it happened; Gray Eagle had sent his signal with the lance.

  He hastily called down, “There it is, Sir! The parley lance; they want to talk. That warrior out front has thrown the pow-wow lance into the ground and is waiting for an answer,” he nearly babbled in his anxiety. “My God!” he swore excitedly. “It’s him, Sir. The feather is yellow! It’s Gray Eagle himself.”

  The long lines of chiefs and warriors were indeed from many different tribes; many were friends, others only allies for this particular day. Each warrior’s face was painted with his own design and color. Most were dressed similarly to Gray Eagle, except for the chiefs; they were attired in full ceremonial dress, wearing their traditional, flowing war bonnets. Their stoical, arrogant faces could instill terror into the heart of the bravest of men. Many of the younger warriors looked fiendishly evil from their chosen designs and colors, which was what they intended; others appeared the epitome of courage and strength. It would be a dauntless, fearsome group of warriors which greeted the inhabitants of Fort Pierre this fateful day.

  After Gray Eagle had assumed his position at the head of the tribes, he shifted from side to side upon Chula’s broad back to allow his jet-colored eyes to glance up and down the countless lines of Indian allies. His keen eyes detected the presence of several chiefs from other villages. His heart swelled with pride and honor at being chosen their leader and spokesman for this grave meeting. His eyes halted and momentarily lingered on Mahpiya Sapa, chief of the Blackfoot tribe. Strange, unease feelings
passed through his mind as his eyes met the expressionless ones of Black Cloud, but he quickly dismissed such groundless warnings. It was evident that nearly all of the surrounding tribes had sent warriors to help in this final purging of the white man and bluecoats from their lands. Afterall, they had all received the same vision from Wakantanka during the council meeting of the Warrior Society.

  It was then that the warriors had eaten the sacred peyote buttons to instill endurance and courage for this coming battle and to bring about contact with the Great Spirit. They had all chanted and prayed for his guidance and help. He had sent a vision to all of the warriors present, the same vision. It had revealed the will of Wakantanka to them: Alisha was to be returned to Gray Eagle, and the other whites were to be driven from these lands. That mutually shared vision was powerful magic;

  Gray Eagle turned his attention again to the fort, where panic and tension ran rampant. The overwhelming sight of the enormous band of Indians just outside the walls was alarming and intimidating. Terror had broken loose at the implication of the awesome event which might be ready to take place. The soldiers were scurrying about, getting their weapons and preparing to defend their lives and the fort. The few civilians who were present hurried inside their assigned quarters to hide and to shriek in dread. The men began to mill about nervously, anticipating their defeat—or worse, their deaths.

  The men who had participated in the raid upon the brave’s village a few weeks before quaked in apprehension. All they had done was to recapture the white girl Alisha Williams. But little did the soldiers then know that Alisha had stolen the heart of the fiercest savage in the West! The realization that the raid on Gray Eagle’s camp had been a foolish and deadly mistake was all too evident all too late!

  When the sentry informed General Galt that Gray Eagle himself was outside the fort, Galt swore at the young soldier’s damnable carelessness. How dare the sole sentry of Fort Pierre fall asleep on duty!

  Galt nervously wiped the beads of sweat from his upper lip, only to have the moisture instantly reappear. Then he cursed both Gray Eagle and Lieutenant Jeffery Gordon; those two men would be the destruction of his command yet. Neither one of them could be trusted; they were both too proud, too stubborn, and too damn reckless. Both men had been thorns in his side since the first day he had accepted this futile assignment in this godforsaken, savage land. But Gordon threatened his command even more. “Insolent, glory-seeking, young curl” he fumed just above a whisper. He silently wished that Gray Eagle had been in his village to welcome Jeffery’s arrival then. That way, Galt could have been rid of at least one of his aggravations . . .

  At that moment, Jeffery seized his full attention as he sneered, “Send that insolent scout Powchutu out to see what they want. With any luck, they’ll send his body back rather than a message.”

  Galt looked up at Jeffery’s six-foot frame, and sarcastically replied, “After that stupid raid you pulled on his camp, Lieutenant, it should be obvious what Gray Eagle wants. It’ll take some tall talk to get ourselves out of this predicament you’ve gotten us into. If we do, you had better stay the hell away from his camp, or any camp you lack the orders to attack! That’s an order you had better remember.”

  General Galt called the half-breed scout over to him. He ordered, “Powchutu, it looks as if they want to parley. I best send you out there to see what he wants. Get back in here as soon as you can.” His apprehension and fear were apparent to both Powchutu and Jeffery, but Powchutu did not revel in it as Jeffery did.

  “Yes, Sir,” he replied. He walked to the gates and waited for the guards to lift the bar and to swing the huge, wooden gates open for him to pass through. He fearlessly walked outside. He absently listened as the gates were pushed shut and re-barred. He gazed out at the sight before him, inwardly wishing he was a part of it, and went straight up to the warrior who sat in the place of the leader. He knew that he had nothing to fear at this talk; the Indian was a man of his word and would not attack under the shadow of the talking-lance. Later, perhaps, but now, never!

  He halted before the warrior and spoke slowly and evenly, “I am Powchutu, scout and speaker for the cavalry. The general wants to know why you are here. Why do so many braves and chiefs come dressed and painted for war?”

  The imposing warrior answered in a deep, steady tone, “I am Wanmdi Hota, son of Chief Running Wolf of the Oglalas.” Gray Eagle alertly noted the effect of his name upon the scout. His face had registered enlightenment, recognition, and respect. But, had it then reflected hatred and anger? As quickly as these emotions had raced across Powchutu’s face, they had been suppressed. Gray Eagle could not help but think this mixture of feelings was strange and meaningful.

  Powchutu had thought and felt exactly those things and more. His suspicions of this man’s identity had just been proven accurate. There should not have been any doubt, for his bearing and courage had shouted his name. Powchutu’s heart had been smitten by Alisha as well, and he could not help but be disappointed that Gray Eagle was indeed what his reputation claimed: a man to melt the heart of a woman, a man to strike terror into the heart of an enemy, and a man who obviously stood above all others in many ways. Yet, there was also something else about his physical appearance, something important and intangible which Powchutu failed to discern, something which would have explained Alisha’s reactions to him.

  Gray Eagle continued in his language, “I have come to demand an apology for the raid on my village. I seek payment for the ruin and dishonor your bluecoats did there. You will hand over the white girl you stole from my camp; this is your payment. I demand your shame. Through her sacrifice, the white man will make amends for the disgrace and suffering brought upon my people. If you value your lives, she will be sent to me. If you refuse, we will attack the fort and destroy it and all inside. If the white girl survives the raid, she would still become my prisoner once more. A battle would cost the lives of many from both sides. It would be futile and foolish. But, your people must be made to suffer as my people have because of the contempt and hatred of the one with yellow hair. I will teach your people humiliation through the girl. They will see and know the foolishness of their actions. They will be made to know shame by giving the girl to me willingly in order to save their own lives. I will force them to reveal the cowards they truly are.” He spoke these words with great confidence and boldness as he observed the scout’s expression.

  Powchutu’s eyes had widened in disbelief and shock. He could not comprehend such cruelty as this man vowed to the woman he loved. He would never turn Alisha over to this madman! Powchutu fired at him, “She is innocent of the raid upon your camp! Demand the lives of the men who did this thing, not hers. The fight is between you and the lieutenant. Do not place her in the middle of your battleground. You have caused her enough pain and dishonor. Why should we give her back to you? Why do you not ask for the life of the other white girl you captured from her fortress, the one called Brown?” Too late, Powchutu realized he should have said that Alisha had died from the beating Gray Eagle had given her shortly before her arrival at the fort.

  Gray Eagle calmly answered, “The life and sacrifice of a whore means nothing to either of us, but the life and sacrifice of the green-eyed girl would bring much dishonor and anguish from all of you. The men responsible for the raid would be tortured and killed quickly if you turned them over to us; the deed would soon be forgotten by your people. But, living with the truth of what they had been forced to give up to save their own lives would live in their hearts for a very long time. It is far easier to die with honor than to live with shame. Their deaths would be too easy for all of you to accept and to forget, but not hers. Is this not true, scout?” he openly challenged.

  Powchutu realized just how smart and cunning he was. Just like the angry, starving wolf, he went for the jugular vein of his enemy. Powchutu’s muscles stiffened. His voice was tinged with both sadness and fury as he accused, “So, you have really come back for Alishal Just as I believed you woul
d one day. Surely even the great Wanmdi Hota realizes her great value. But I will not allow them to send her back to you and to your cruelty. Did you not take enough from her when you killed her people, when you burned her fortress, when you captured her, when you beat her and raped her? Has she not paid enough for being white? Do you not owe her some measure of kindness for saving your life? If she had not gone against her own people that day long ago, they would have killed you. Has she not earned the right to be free and to be happy? Is this too much justice for the great warrior Wanmdi Hota to give?” he sneered in contempt, but his worried expression belied his brave words.

  Gray Eagle appeared to ignore all his words. He spoke with an icy, deadly calm, “She will be brought here to me before the sun is straight above my head, or we will attack at that same hour. You will not be able to help her then. I will not be able to spare her life then. If we are forced to attack, no life will be spared.”

  Powchutu was desperate to keep Alisha for himself and challenged, “What if she will not come to you?”

  Gray Eagle’s eyes narrowed and darkened noticeably. His jawline tightened. His expression warned Powchutu that he had overstepped his bounds in meddling in this warrior’s demands. He glared at Powchutu and stated coldly, “If she will not come willingly, then you will force her to come. Bring the girl to me now.”

  “I tell you this, Wanmdi Hota, if you harm her again, I will hunt you down and kill you with my bare hands. Powchutu has spoken and so it shall bel” Powchutu’s threat was choked. Gray Eagle did not miss the look of anguish which flooded his eyes and tinged his voice as he continued, “You have judged the white-eyes well and true. They will return her to you to save themselves. To them, she is no longer white. But, I tell you this, Wanmdi Hota, her return will be by force. She will never return by your words alone.”