Cherokee Embrace

Book 0: Heartfire

by Teresa Howard

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

Lacy Dawn Hampton sighed with exasperation as she fanned herself in the gazebo at Paradise Plantation. How sheltered and boring her life was. She longed for passion and excitement, but her father and three older brothers protected her from everything. Then she heard a splash and her green eyes widened as a towering Indian emerged from the lake and walked straight toward her. Modesty fled as Lacy crossed the lawn to meet the handsome half breed. She felt the heat of his impassioned flesh, then his first touch, finally a kiss that made her tremble with desire. Tomorrow she'd be a proper southern belle once more, but today she must savor a fiery forbidden rapture in the arms of a savage lover. Chase Tarleton had traveled the Trail of Tears when his Indian family was driven from their native Georgia. Now, back for a reunion with his white grandparents, Chase found himself torn between two worlds, the Cherokee camp he'd left behind and the vast plantation, Towering Pines, that would someday be his. Nearing his destination, Chase paused for a refreshing swim and spied a vision in peach colored satin. The luscious golden haired belle was staring straight at him. Instinct overrode caution as Chase clasped the delicate maiden in his strong arms, crushing her velvety softness against his bronze chest. He knew he must taste those teasing crimson lips, span that tiny waist with his muscular hands, and caress every satiny inch of her tempting, creamy body.

Release date: January 1, 1992

Publisher: eClassics

Print pages: 384

Sample

Chase Tarleton pulled rein at the Athens Fancyware and Drygoods store. He arched his stiff back, flexing his broad shoulders, before sliding from his mount. Finally, his three-month, cross-country journey had ended. What lay ahead he didn’t dare imagine.

Frozen in front of the store were two Southern belles, properly decked out in their morning finery. With their bavolet bonnets at a precarious angle, two sets of eyes wide, they gaped at Chase, who was tossing his stallion’s reins over the hitching post.

He supposed he did look ominous, dressed in fringed buckskin with his shoulder-length hair hanging loose. But a quick glance at the women relieved him. They didn’t look frightened, just curious, and he wasn’t offended by that. He was accustomed to it.

“Ladies,” Chase greeted in cultured tones as he bowed slightly at the waist and doffed his John B.

Their nervous giggles followed him into the store.

Ladies! He rolled his eyes heavenward. Ladies were like priceless paintings to Chase; objects to be enjoyed, but not possessed. It wasn’t the money; it was the emotional cost he couldn’t afford—not after the way Leslie had died.

Inside the well-stocked store, Chase found no one in attendance. He wandered idly up and down the aisles, picking his way through a plethora of merchandise, but to no avail. He couldn’t find what he wanted, which didn’t surprise him. This was the third store he’d visited, and each time he’d gone away empty.

As he was about to leave, a portly fellow emerged from what Chase guessed to be the storeroom. The smiling man introduced himself as Jacob Culberson, the owner of the establishment. Jacob politely offered his assistance.

Chase studied the proprietor’s expression warily, deciding the man’s smile was genuine. Subconsciously, he swiped at his dusty bucksins. “Do you have any ready-made clothes that would fit me?”

Jacob studied the young giant. The only man he knew who was that big was Eli Tarleton, and since Eli was the richest man in North Georgia, Jacob always kept merchandise on hand for him.

“Back here,” Jacob said, heading for the rear of the store.

Chase was pleasantly surprised when Jacob stood before a whole rack of clothes that fit his needs. In a few moments, he had made his choices, then he and Jacob headed for the front of the store. The door opened, admitting a sedately dressed matron and a redheaded, freckle-faced boy.

The child’s eyes grew wide at the sight of Chase. “Look, Mama, a real Indian.”

“Hush, Mark, don’t be rude.” The woman’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

A chuckle rumbled from somewhere deep inside Chase. “It’s all right ma’am. I’m sure Mark meant no disrespect.”

He turned to pay the shopkeeper and gathered his packages in his arms.

“Come again.” Jacob smiled at the Indian.

Chase opened his mouth to ask a question, then halted when he felt a small hand stroke his arm. Looking down, his pale blue eyes met the little boy’s uncertain gaze.

“Never touched a real Indian before,” the child whispered in awe.

Chase smiled as he looked into the little boy’s guileless face. A scripture the Reverend Evan Jones had often quoted to Chase when he and his family were forced to travel the Trail of Tears popped into his mind:

“But the wisdom that is from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, and easy to be entreated, full of mercy and good fruits, without partiality, and without hypocrisy.”

He saw the truth of these words reflected in the little boy’s eyes.

Chase dropped onto one knee. On eye level with Mark, he ruffled the boy’s hair. “How old are you, son?”

“Six and a half.” The word six whistled through a gap where his two front teeth were missing.

Chase’s throat felt tight. For a painful moment, he allowed himself to remember all he had suffered by the time he was six and a half. Mentally, he shook himself. Then he winked at the child.

“You’re almost a man,” he said.

Mark’s narrow chest expanded with pride.

The door opened again, and Chase sensed trouble. He raised his head and saw two men standing in the doorway, one as fat as a pregnant bear, the other as skinny as a pelican’s leg.

Their faces were shrouded in hate.

“Get away from that boy, breed,” Fatty sneered, stepping into the store.

Chase straightened to his full height, his movement unhurried.

The newcomers’ eyes widened as they looked up and up, finally reaching Chase’s expressionless face.

“Damn, that’s the biggest Indian I ever seen,” said Skinny.

“That’s the biggest anything I ever seen,” concurred Fatty.

The air in the room crackled with tension. Chase didn’t want to fight. He wasn’t sure how his grandparents would receive him as it was. He certainly didn’t want to have to explain his part in a town brawl when he met them for the first time. He decided to let the insult pass.

“Ma’am.” Chase nodded, bidding the woman good day.

He turned to the proprietor. “Could you tell me how to get to the Tarleton plantation?”

Before Culberson could answer, Fatty grabbed Chase by the arm. “Don’t turn your back on me, savage.”

That word! In one fluid motion, Chase pivoted on the balls of his feet, swinging his powerful fist. With a crack that sounded like a rifle shot, he knocked Fatty to the floor, unconscious. Before Skinny could reach him, Chase stepped forward and threw another punch which sent his assailant tumbling to the floor beside his partner.

Mark jumped up and down, clapping his hands in delight. “Did you see that Mama? Did you? Can I go tell Papa? He won’t believe it! Can I go, Mama? Can I?”

Chase winced. “I’m sorry you and the boy had to see that, Ma’am.”

“They got what they deserved,” she told Chase flatly. Then she called to her son’s retreating figure, “Mark, you may tell your pa, but you come right back, you hear?”

The boy was already out the door. With a slight smile, Mark’s spunky mother went back to her shopping, as if nothing had happened.

Chase shook his head. Women never ceased to amaze him. He turned to the shopkeeper and gestured to the felled men. “I’m sorry about the mess.”

“It was worth it to see a fight like that. I’ve never seen the beat.” He chuckled.

Chase was amused by the Southern expression he had heard his mother use time and again.

“Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

His smile slipped away. Fingering the ruby ring he wore on the last finger of his left hand, he said, “Let’s just say that I’ve had this sort of experience before.”

The shopkeeper cleared his throat, embarrassed.

“Could you tell me how to get to the Tarleton plantation?” Chase asked again.

“Oh, yes, Towering Pines. Follow Front Street, that’s the street right in front of the store, and go east’til you pass Doc Hampton’s place. It’s the first farm you’ll come to. The road that runs along his place dead ends into a thick stand of trees. There’s a wagon trail that leads down to a lake that joins the two plantations. Mr. Eli’s place is about two miles due east. You can’t miss it.”

Chase thanked the man, gathered his wrapped packages, stepped over Skinny’s and Fatty’s inert bodies, and walked from the store.

His deerskin moccasins made no sound as he crossed the store’s front planks. Alert for more trouble, he placed the parcels in his saddlebags, retrieved Spirit’s reins, then vaulted lightly onto the animal’s back.

Once in the saddle, he raised his head and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dry goods store’s window. A strained smile lifted the corners of his mouth. It would never do to meet his grandparents looking like this. Grandparents! He still couldn’t get used to the idea.

Maybe it was just as well; they might not like Indians any better than Skinny and Fatty did. After all, they were from Georgia. And Chase knew all too well how Georgians dealt with Indians. That, after all, was how he lost his real grandparents . . .

He tried vainly to ignore the bitterness rising in him and wheeled his horse about, heading east, toward the lake that joined the Hampton and Tarleton plantations.

Over the clatter of his horse’s hooves, the laughter of children rang out. A dog barked. The town was bustling; all along Front Street the people of Athens went about their business. Finely dressed gentlemen and blushing coquettes rubbed elbows with dirt farmers and their runny-nosed families. And as a unit, they turned and watched the brooding savage pass by.

Seated in a white wicker chair, Lacy Dawn Hampton settled her billowy skirts about her. Wistfully, she gazed through the arch of the Grecian-style gazebo at the beautiful blue lake in the distance. The water shimmered like a pool of liquid diamonds as well-fed swans glided across its glassy surface.

The secluded gazebo, situated at the edge of the immense lawn, was nestled in a garden, fairly bursting with late-blooming roses and heady gardenias. A magnolia tree filtered out the bright sunlight, casting dancing shadows about Lacy to the tune of musical breezes.

With the delicate movements ingrained by years of training, she patted her dress at her sides. She loved the gazebo. It was her favorite spot on Paradise plantation, a place where peace was often her companion, but not so of late. Her turbulent emotions had chased it away.

She breathed in the perfume of the blooms and thought of her blossoming womanhood. To her surprise, it had brought with it a measure of fear, insecurity, and confusion.

She worried her lower lip with her teeth. All her life she had been a content, peaceful child, albeit slightly spoiled. But now she was a stranger to herself. One minute she was satisfied to be Daddy’s little girl, pampered and adored by her family, and the next, she would yearn to experience life more fully. Whatever that meant. She supposed it had something to do with love. Love!

She thought of the love that flowed between Jared and Melinda, the oldest of her three brothers and his wife. Many mornings their faces would fairly glow. She sometimes caught Jared grinning at his wife, Melinda’s responding blush hinting that something special had transpired in their bedroom the night before.

Although Lacy was too innocent and inexperienced to know exactly what it was, she did know that she wanted to feel like that, too. A flush of hot color burst upon her pale cheeks as she wondered if ladies of quality were supposed to have such wanton feelings and desires. Somehow, she doubted it.

She fingered the pleats of her gown, then flattened her downy soft hand over her heart in a dramatic gesture. Oh, glory! Little did it benefit her to desire such passion in life, for she lived with four men who seemed determined to keep her a little girl.

Besides her father and Jared, who hovered over her like two old setting hens, there were Brad and Jay. These two roguish brothers literally doted on her, spending every waking moment trying to keep her sheltered, innocent, protected . . . and ignorant. God, how she hated that!

She was quite convinced that if the Hampton men had their way, one day she’d be eighty years old and still sitting around with strange urges, not knowing what to do about them. Lacy balled her hands into fists and squealed.

She was so filled with frustrated energy that she jumped to her feet, swaying slightly from the weight of her caged crinoline, and left the gazebo, walking toward the lake. Its gentle waters often calmed her.

Sweeping her hoop skirt first this way, then that, she wound her way through the thick copse of trees that separated her from the shimmering water. Beneath the trees it was a full five degrees cooler than in the sunlight. Slightly chilled, Lacy pulled her lace mantle more tightly about her shoulders.

It was a beautiful fall morning. All around her, brilliantly colored leaves fluttered in the air, drifting to the ground. Some were as golden as her hair, others the deep burgundy of Mammy Mae’s cooked beets. Lacy smiled in spite of her tightly wound emotions and plucked a russet leaf that clung to her full-skirted gown.

If only she could have remained a child. Life had been so simple then. What a mass of conflicting emotions she had become. She longed for love, then wanted to be a child again.

“You can’t have it both ways, Lacy girl,” she chided herself aloud.

A slight breeze ruffled the lace of her sleeves and lifted a silken curl from her shoulders. It brought to her the sweet smell of water, along with a moment of tranquility.

Suddenly, she heard a splash, followed by a deep, husky gasp.

Lacy stood still, listening intently. Could it be Stuart’s runaway slave, she wondered.

Her heart pounded; fear gripped her. A runaway would be insane to stop this close to civilization unless he was hurt. If that were the case, he could be dangerous.

She sucked in a deep breath and willed her heart to cease fluttering. What should she do? She knew she should leave, but perhaps she could help him. Nobody would have to know.

Taking a tentative step closer, she listened. More splashing. He certainly wasn’t trying to be quiet, she noted with surprise.

Slowly, cautiously, Lacy moved toward the clearing. She could see patches of blue just ahead.

Abruptly, the splashing ceased. Lacy peered through the trees. Immediately her eyes grew wide, and she gasped. Standing in knee-deep water was a naked Indian.

“A savage. Oh, glory!” she exclaimed, awestruck. She clamped her eyes shut, knowing she shouldn’t look at him. Just turn around and leave, she ordered herself. Maybe just one peek, she thought. Slowly, she opened first one eye, then the other.

She should have been frightened, but she wasn’t. She was mesmerized by the beauty of his body. And there was so much of it to admire!

In a broodingly handsome way, Chase Tarleton, all six feet, four inches of him, looked positively dangerous. His blue-black hair, lightly swaying in the breeze, reached down to his shoulders. His moist skin was a dark, golden brown. To Lacy, it looked like soaked satin over steel. His broad shoulders were as wide as the horizon, his bulging arms as solid as the columns circling Paradise manor, his corded stomach as hard and flat as a Georgia pine.

Her perusal continued a downward course, causing her to wonder at her own boldness. Embarrassed, she caught herself just before she reached a dangerous level. She was inquisitive, but not that inquisitive. Once again, she closed her eyes.

The savage moved. The sound of swishing water aroused Lacy’s curiosity. When she opened her eyes, she saw him walking toward shore. With each step, his thigh muscles bunched; resembing a stalking panther. Her mouth grew dry as all thoughts of maidenly modesty vanished.

Just then, she heard a horse whinny. The savage turned his head to the left, where a beautiful black stallion was grazing peacefully.

Lacy held her breath as he turned quickly in her direction. Did he see her? No. Surely, he wouldn’t be standing there, facing her as naked as the day he was born, if he knew he was being watched.

She gripped the tree with white-knuckled fists. Her curiosity got the better of her, and her gaze slid lower. Black hair swirled around his navel and continued below.

A breath caught in her throat when something below his waist moved. Her mouth dropped open. What was that? And it was changing shape. She was fascinated.

The older girls at Miss Lucy Cobb’s Finishing School had told her about it, but she hadn’t believed them. She had thought they were teasing when they had told her what happened when a man got excited. Lacy couldn’t imagine what had excited the savage.

As he turned his back on her, the abrupt movement spooked the resting swans. Their responding squawk jolted Lacy back to her senses—to the epitome of Southern womanhood.

She whirled, gathered her skirts into her arms and, in a flurry of silk, disappeared into the forest. When she reached the gazebo, she berated herself for a full fifteen minutes. Appalled, she could not believe that she had stared at a naked man like a common trollop. Humiliation and guilt flooded her.

Her daddy would have a stroke if he found out what she had done. She dropped her head into her hands and groaned in despair.

“Ah, come on now. Didn’t you like what you saw?”

Lacy started at the sound of the deep, cultured voice. Sitting regally astride the black stallion, was the savage. He was no longer naked, but clothed in a scant flap of buckskin that was just damp enough to outline his considerable male attributes. Shocked, she couldn’t speak.

“Are you all right?” he queried, noting her stricken look.

After a moment of strained silence, she cleared her throat and drawled, “I’m afraid you startled me. I thought I was alone.”

Chase groaned inwardly. Lacy’s lilting Southern accent sounded like golden honey pouring on a summer day. More like a caress than a sound, it reached out and stroked his heated flesh. He smiled with undisguised lust and absorbed her with his gaze.

As custom dictated, her hair was gathered thickly at the back of her head, arranged in a heavy, plaited chignon and trimmed with ivory satin ribbons. A few stray tendrils framed her oval-shaped face. Sultry, emerald green eyes held Chase spellbound. In their depths, he detected an innocent curiosity along with something else, something more potent.

Chase felt a familiar stirring in his loins. He had been traveling for three months, during which time he hadn’t had a woman, and his abstinence was telling on him.

Unable to stop himself, he fixed his gaze on Lacy’s body. Her waist was so tiny, he could circle it with his hands; her breasts were full for one so small. She gave the appearance of being young, but his eyes told him she was fully grown. The wasp-waisted beauty was playing havoc with his self-control.

She was dressed in an exquisite gown of pale peach silk. A lace mantle of darker peach rested in the curve of her arms. Chase knew little of fashion, but it was obvious that the young lady was acquainted with the finer points of costuming.

Lady! The word penetrated his lust-dulled brain. Run man, she is a lady, even if she does like to watch strange men bathe in the buff.

But Chase didn’t heed his own warning. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly dismounted and padded across the thick green carpet of grass, moving with a stoic grace that belied his formidable size.

Lacy’s heart pounded like a drum.

When he stood before her, she stared into his eyes. They were a beautiful shade of light blue, glassy clear, almost translucent, not Stygian dark as she had expected.

A surge of longing rushed through her virginal body; every frustrated feeling she’d ever known was intensified by his overwhelming presence. When a warm sensation uncurled low in her belly, a soft blush stained her face.

She had never been alone with a man before—certainly never with one who was practically nude. Had he seen her at the lake? She panicked.

“What did you first ask me?” Her voice trembled.

“I asked if you were all right.”

“No, before that.”

“I asked if you liked what you saw.” He raised an ebony brow.

The color drained from Lacy’s face. She tilted her chin, striving for a look of innocence. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

He drew closer—so close that the heat from his bare body warmed her and his bare legs brushed the folds of her gown.

Looking down into her upturned face, he purred, “Sweet Peach, you don’t have to put on airs with me.”

Lacy jumped to her feet, suddenly enraged, her temper fueled by guilt and humiliation. “How dare you . . . you . . .” she sputtered.

The rapid movement caught Chase unaware. He lost his balance and tottered precariously. In an attempt to maintain his equilibrium, he gripped Lacy’s shoulders more tightly than he intended.

“Don’t touch me, you miserable lecher. My daddy will shoot you,” she declared.

Chase threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “Lecher is it? Who watched whom take a bath?”

Lacy exploded. “I didn’t watch you take a bath!” She stamped her foot, barely missing Chase’s toe.

Chase stepped backward and held his hands up in a placating gesture. He found Lacy adorable, spitting and sputtering as she was. “Forgive me, Sweet Peach. You watched me walk naked from the lake and dry off. I stand corrected.”

His lazy grin infuriated her all the more. “I didn’t watch you. I heard a splash and thought you were a runaway slave . . . not a . . . a depraved savage!”

The grin froze on Chase’s face; anger lit his eyes.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Your Highness,” he said sarcastically. His tone was biting and hard. “But I’m not a savage, nor any man’s slave. And if I were, you wouldn’t live to turn me in.”

She flinched as if he’d struck her. What had she said to anger him so?

The threat hung in the air as Chase advanced on Lacy. His massive frame dwarfed her, and his pale eyes were blue shards of ice.

“I wouldn’t turn you in, in any case,” she said softly.

He placed his hands on her shoulders once again. “I know you wouldn’t,” he mocked her sweet tone, then pulled her flush to his body. “Because I’m bigger than you.” His breath was warm on her cheek. “And I’m stronger than you.”

He caught a fleeting sign of fear in her eyes. Momentarily, his anger waned. Hooking a finger under her chin, he tilted her head back. Her scent, like sun-warmed roses, filled his nostrils, and he was enraged again. The heady aroma was a symbol of what he would never allow himself to possess: a soft, sweet-smelling lady.

“And I’m . . .” he began, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. So, suddenly, roughly, he pulled Lacy against his bare chest and hungrily plundered her mouth.

She gasped in shock as he thrust his tongue into her soft, moist cavern, deepening their kiss. She felt faint and clutched at him, engulfing his bare legs in her skirts.

To Chase’s surprise, he forgot the source of his anger. The girl’s unorthodox behavior clouded his mind and stirred something in his heart that he had spent months building impregnable walls against.

He tightened his grasp fractionally, then kissed her softly and gently, over and over, sipping, tasting, savoring her sweetness, until he was reluctant to stop. He stole her warm breath, and returned it to her, mingled with his own.

Finally, he released her.

Both thoroughly shaken, for a moment they stood staring at each other.

Then Lacy emerged from the spell Chase had cast about her and did what every well-bred Southern lady had been taught to do in such situations. She drew back her hand and slapped his face, snapping his head with the force of her blow.

Eyes wide, she clutched at her throat, for she hadn’t meant to hit him so hard. Under his bronze complexion, a perfect handprint was clearly discernable.

Chase raised his hand to his stinging flesh, and his expression grew passive. “You had better run back to your daddy, my Sweet Georgia Peach, before this savage does something that we’ll both regret!”

“You already have,” she whispered and hitched her skirts.

Seething, Chase stepped out of her path so that she could retreat. Inanely, he noticed that she had clocks embroidered on her stockings.

Then she was gone.

Chase watched Lacy retreat until she was out of sight. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and willed his body to return to its normal state. He should have known he’d get stung by cavorting with a spoiled, self-serving prima dona. All ladies were alike, he reminded himself vehemently. And not for the likes of him!

He mounted his horse and headed back toward the lake, where he had left his gear. He wondered what the girl would do when she reached home. She’d probably sound the alarm to circle the wagons and prepare for an Indian attack, he mused wryly.

With a well-developed sense of will, Chase put all thoughts of the past unpleasantness aside and concentrated upon what lay ahead of him. When he reached the edge of the water, he slid from the saddle and set about civilizing himself.

He cut his hair with a hunting knife, then dressed in the new clothes he had bought for his first meeting with his grandparents. After he donned his white linen shirt, blue breeches, and black knee boots, he studied his reflection on the lake’s surface. He was surprised to see that he had admirably made the transformation from a half-naked Indian to a well-tanned Southern planter. The realization brought with it a strange sense of guilt.

Reverently, he placed his breechcloth and moccasins into his saddlebags, along with his other buckskins. He wouldn’t rid himself of his Indian trappings because his mother, Nelda Cruce, had made them, and they and his mother’s ruby ring were all he had left of his old life. At least for now.

Spirit whinnied softly as Chase tossed his saddlebags onto the horse’s back and mounted up. In less than an hour, he would reach Towering Pines. After his fight with the rednecks in town and his encounter with the young chit who had slapped his face, he hoped there wouldn’t be another unpleasant confrontation.

He galloped along on the final leg of his journey at an unhurried pace, revelling in the scenery of his first home. The burst of autumn color infused him with a sense of peace; the bright crimsons, the gleaming golds, the deep russets washed over his soul. Nature always affected him that way.

But his peace was short lived. The loathsome word savage popped into his mind.

Why did she have to call him that? That was the one word that hurt him most.

When he’d gone to school in New England, they had called The People Noble Savages, an obvious contradiction in terms. But that wasn’t the first time he’d run up against the derisive label.

In his mind the years fell away, like layers of an onion. Each formative event of his life was punctuated by the painful hiss of savage, until finally, he was transported back to a day twenty-one years before, a day that would always live in his memory, a day that would change his life forever. Upon this very land he’d first heard the awful name. With a measure of regret . . . he remembered.

It was May, 1838. The hot afternoon sun bore down upon the red clay of Georgia, melting away the cool of the day. The federal militia resembled a sea of blue as it washed over the land, tearing the Cherokees from their homes.

In their ravaging, the army came upon the Cruce farm in North Georgia. Nelda Cruce and her sister, Neta, were watching their sons at play. Stalker, as Chase was called then, and his cousin, Little Spear, were playing with the neighbor’s children, Brad and Jay Hampton. The militia posed no threat to the Hamptons, because they were white; for the Indian family, it was a different story.

The Cherokees had been given three years to vacate the state of Georgia voluntarily, and their time had run out. Now they would be driven from the land of their ancestors by force. It was to that end the militia descended upon Chase’s home.

The frightened women, hearing the ominous sound of horses’ hooves, ran for the children. Brad, Jay, and Little Spear huddled behind them in fear.

But Stalker didn’t hide. When the regiment reined in before the wicker-framed house, he stepped protectively in front of his mother. He planted his feet and rested his tig. . .