Jenna Kernan - The Warrior's Captive Bride

His wife for two moons...?

Plagued by a mysterious sickness, Crow warrior Night Storm captures the witch he believes cursed him. But his anticipated revenge dissolves when he realizes that beautiful Skylark might be the only one who can provide a cure...

Skylark agrees to pose as Night Storm’s wife so she can find a way to heal him. But when an unexpected desire flares, Sky’s mission changes and she’ll do everything in her power to find a way to make their arrangement last a lifetime!

“I need a healer. One who can help me and who will keep my secret.”

Her eyes fixed on the warrior.

Storm swallowed and looked at his face. Handsome, hopeful. There was a crease between his dark brows and his full mouth pursed as he stood for her scrutiny.

He looked like many warriors, but somehow he was different because of the way she felt when she looked at him. And there was something else—an important difference between this man and all other men. He knew she was the daughter of Heyokha and a medicine woman and still he wanted her. Not for herself but for what she might do.

Night Storm did not see her as dangerous. Or if he did he was willing to take the risk.

Author Note

What a joy it has been to create two sequential historical romances that include Native American heroes and heroines from the Sioux and Crow people. Thank you to all who reviewed my last story, Running Wolf, and who wrote to tell me how much you enjoyed hearing the story of my warrior woman.

This tale is of a woman who wants to be a great healer, like her grandmother, and a man who wants only to regain what he has lost: his ability to fight for his people. For, as anyone who has ever suffered a life-altering injury or accident knows, it is sometimes impossible to return to the life one led before. This is the story of a warrior’s struggle to become what he once was and the healer who believes he can be so much more. As you’ve already suspected, the ride will be rough, the stakes high and the outcome uncertain.

In this story I have blended real medical conditions with the mysticism of the Plains Indian tribes in the 1800s. I hope readers will indulge my blending of science and spirituality and enjoy the adventure of Night Storm and Skylark.

To help you keep time with the Crow people I have added a moon calendar at the back of the story. Each tribe called the moons by different names. This is my interpretation of the appropriate names for the moons in each season.

Happy reading and, as always, enjoy the adventure!

The Warrior’s Captive Bride

Jenna Kernan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Award-winning author JENNA KERNAN writes fast-paced Western and paranormal romantic adventures. She has penned over two dozen novels, has received two RITA® nominations, and in 2010 won the Book Buyers’ Best Award for her debut paranormal romance. Jenna loves an adventure. Her hobbies include recreational gold-prospecting, scuba diving and gem-hunting. Follow Jenna on Twitter @jennakernan, on Facebook or at jennakernan.com.

For Jim, always.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Moons

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Many Flowers Moon

Northern Yellowstone River Valley,

Crow Territory

1859

Night Storm stared down at the young woman standing before his horse and felt his throat go dry.

It was her.

His heart beat as fast as running feet and accelerated again when her eyes met his and she realized she’d been discovered. A glance would tell her that he was not enemy Sioux but one of the Crow people.

She grasped her collecting bag and straightened, her hand going to her skinning knife. What a picture she made, outwardly plain, her clothing drab as the feathers of a female pheasant. But it was not her clothing that appealed. Not even her elaborate moccasins and the ornately quilled sheath for her knife that fell between her full breasts. His little quail’s beauty was more subtle. She did not need feathers and beads. Her dress was not dyed a bright yellow or green or red like so many women he could name. Neither did she sew coins or elks’ teeth to the yoke of her dress. Her hair was long and braided, but she did not dress the braids with fur or trade cloth. In fact she seemed to have secured the ends with green grass. He chuckled at her complete lack of guile.

This one needed none of those adornments to shine. Her beauty came from her face and figure, her grace and poise, and also from her skills.

He knew of no other woman who would ever consider straying on her own so far from her tribe. But when she stood to face him, he did not see fear, just a kind of watchfulness.

“Why are you out here all alone?” he asked.

“I am not alone.”

“No?” He glanced about for some rival. Had she come to this place to meet someone? His teeth locked together.

“I am with you.”

His gaze snapped back to her to find her smiling. “And I am searching for someone else.”

“A lover?”

She flushed. “A heyoka.”

His dog, Frost, whined and then gave a single bark. It had been that bark that had given him away when he had discovered her here alone in the forest. He quieted his dog, who thumped to his seat. He should have left the mutt at camp, but since his accident Frost had been a near constant companion, and in truth he was good company.

“The heyoka. He is your father.”

She did not deny it but her eyes rounded. Was she surprised to discover that he knew this about her? She shouldn’t be. She was the most desirable woman of either the Wind Basin or Low River tribes. But none had offered for her because of her father’s power. It frightened most of the warriors. But he was not like the others. He had a secret he had kept since his vision quest. And his survival in the last battle proved he had powerful magic. Dangerous magic. His injury should have sent him to the spirit road. Why had he lived?

“How do you know my father?”

“I have seen him at the gatherings. And I have seen you.”

He knew she lived with her aunt, uncle and occasionally her father.

A heyoka was a difficult thing to be. And to choose this path was to choose a holy journey. Her father was a wise fool, a contrarian, revealing the people’s follies by demonstrating their foibles. He suspected that her father’s spiritual powers shone in his daughter. That power and wisdom, he needed it to understand his path.

“I could help you look.”

She stared up at this warrior of the Black Lodges people. His hair was black and braided at each temple. The rest fell down his shoulders and back like the mane of his horse. His forelock was cut and his bangs stood stiffly up in the fashion of all Crow warriors. He displayed the record of his accomplishments tied with leather cording in his loose hair, each eagle feather signifying honor earned in battle, in raids and in counting coup against his enemies. About his neck hung his medicine bundle, a string of white glass beads and a copper coin on a leather cord. She looked at the clean line of his collarbone and the smooth brown skin she could see through the opening in his hunting shirt, and felt the urge to touch him.