Spirited by Nancy Holder

Author:Nancy Holder [Holder, Nancy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Published: 2011-01-24T13:30:00+00:00

If she dreamed, she did not remember it.

Dawn crept into the tent, damp and chilly. There was frost on the leather drapes of the tent, and she snuggled more deeply into the fur. Doves cooed; branches rustled. She opened her eyes and listened intently. She assumed that Wusamequin had brought her into his tent to guard her from those who would wish her harm. She sincerely doubted he believed her capable of running. Her injury was too severe.

Wusamequin still slept, his back to her. She stared at his dark hair, seeing that it was not all black. There were rich strands of mahogany, and some closer to dark blue. Seeing his hair tangled and sleep-tossed, she felt a rush of tenderness that she didn’t understand, and so she pushed it away.

She had to relieve herself, and had no idea how to manage it without disturbing him. She didn’t think that her leg would support her, and she wasn’t sure she could force herself to stand on it.

As she pondered what to do, he turned over. His eyes were closed; his face was very dose to hers, and his sigh warmed her cheek. His breath was fresh and smelled of herbs. She wondered if he cleaned his teeth with some kind of powdered mixture, as civilized people did.

She waited for a time, but her need was becoming urgent. Gingerly she began to pull the fur away, and then he rolled the other way again, his back to her.

She caught her breath. A long, deep purple scar ran from the nape of his neck down to the small of his back. Perhaps lower. It was thick and ugly, and she wondered how he had been wounded. Who had tended him? She tentatively reached out her fingers.

He rolled back over. There was such a look of joy and wonder on his face that she tingled. He touched his forehead and murmured something in his language. Then he chuckled and exhaled slowly.

He said, “Mahwah, tahaso.” He made as if to shiver and reached down for the fur.

She cleared her throat. “Ah, sir, I have to …” She closed her eyes. Such things were not permitted to be discussed in civilized society.

Well this is not civilized society, is it? she thought in a fit of pique.

In the distance, a whippoorwill sang out its song. Then she felt something tugging on her hair. She opened her mouth to cry out, but remembered just in time that she might lose her tongue. She flipped over on her back, ramming into him, grunting heavily at the pain in her thigh.

Then she would have screamed—no matter the cost—if Wusamequin had not clamped his hand over her mouth.

A tiny creature gazed up at her. It resembled a male human being, except for its size: it stood perhaps six inches tall. It—he—was dressed in a skirt of fur, a tiny crown of flowers encircling his brow, and strands of her hair dangled between his hands as if he had been tying up the line of a great brigantine.

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