Passion's Series by Mary Adair Page A

woman. A liaison with no strings attached.
    He looked up and caught sight of New Moon a few paces to his left. She handed DuPrey his quiver! Why would she do that? He wasn't her warrior on this warpath! James' movement was swift and silent as he bore down on the two. DuPrey, seeing his approach, turned and silently disappeared into the forest.
    James reached out and took New Moon's upper arm in a firm grip and jerked her around to face him. Hard blue eyes glared into cold black, which refused to be intimidated. James knew his hold on her arm was painful and fought for control of his emotions. He'd never been heavy-handed to a woman and he didn't intend to start now.
    What was she doing to him? He'd almost done the unthinkable and forced a confrontation that would have shot all his well-laid plans to hell.
    New Moon's eyes flashed, her cute little chin raised defiantly. He relaxed his grip as a grin forced its way onto his lips. Pushing this little Wa-sa was dangerous and he had the scars to prove it.
    Slipping his quiver from his shoulder he placed it on hers. He watched in amusement as New Moon fumed like a boiling kettle. What a contradiction she was, angry because he didn't treat her like a squaw and even angrier when he did.
    As he turned from her to stalk into the woods, he swore to himself that the next time he pushed her to the ground it would not be to lie alone.
    ***
    New Moon showed signs of fatigue as the party made its way over and through the last of the rocky ledges in their descent to the lower town. James slowed his pace. As a result they were the last to leave the mountains. Earlier the enemy trail forked so their party split up to cover a larger area, hoping to encircle the three they tracked. James did not know what alerted him, but he swung around to face New Moon on the trail behind him.
    New Moon, seeing him tense even before he turned, dove to one side. There, where she would have been had she not jumped aside, stood a Mohawk warrior.
    As New Moon rolled to safety, the warriors collided in midair. She had not realized how exhausted she was, but now her fatigue weighed her down. Or was it fear?
    The Mohawk was large, almost as large as James. Their muscles strained as they wrestled, hands locked to each other's wrists. It was a matter of strength, of who would hold back the other's blade while making use of his own.
    Suddenly James dropped and New Moon's heart skipped a beat. The Mohawk, his support collapsing beneath him, flew forward to flip and land heavily on his back. James sprang to his feet immediately. Just as the Mohawk gained his footing, James' kick knocked the knife from his hand.
    The Mohawk looked from his numb fingers into the eyes of his opponent. As his black eyes locked with those of cold, clear blue he staggered as if he had seen his own death.
    James spoke to him in the beloved tongue of the Cherokee, "You are looking at your death. Will you die well?"
    The Mohawk answered in the same tongue, "My name is Screaming Eagle. I am a Great warrior. I have killed many of my enemies. I have protected my village! When it is time for me to die, I will die well!"
    With this he snatched a small tomahawk from his side and charged. If New Moon had been frightened before, she was in total paralysis now. The two warriors fought like wild dogs. They punched and gouged each other. They stabbed and swung with such speed and anger that blood flew from the melee and she could not tell whose blood flowed the heavier.
    Finally James saw an opening. He drove the blade deep into the diaphragm of the Mohawk and up to pierce his heart.
    James and Screaming Eagle were locked in a dance of death, which kept New Moon from knowing the victor.
    As Screaming Eagle looked deep into James' blue eyes and his life slipped from him. She heard James whisper respectfully in the beloved tongue of the Mohawk, "You have truly died well, warrior."
    The men broke apart as they dropped to the ground and rolled away from each