Fortune’s Flame Quotes

“You risked your own life to save me,” she said. “I won’t forget that.” His face grew expressionless again. “I told you, Becca. You belong to me. I will not let you go until my father is released.” You belong to me. You belong to me. The words echoed in her mind. “I belong to no one but myself,” she said throatily. But deep inside, she wished . . . “You are my captive.” “I could have left you to bleed to death,” she reminded him. “Ahikta. It is true. But my father is old. If I do not save him, he will die. It shames me to use a woman for a weapon, but sometimes a man must do what he must.” “I think I understand that now,” she said. As I must return to a husband that I can never love, as I might have loved this man were we not born mortal enemies. Talon did not speak again, and in a little while he drifted off to sleep. She sat beside him, hands in her lap, gazing at his sleeping face. How alien he is, she thought, and how beautiful. His skin tone was a warm red-bronze, his cheekbones high and prominent. His lips were thin but sensual, his eyes slightly slanted beneath raven-black brows. His forehead was high and broad, his chin and nose ruggedly defined. It was all she could do to keep from touching his face again. She wanted to stroke the smooth lines of his beardless jaw, to trace those fierce arching brows and commit them all to memory.”
― Judith E. French, This Fierce Loving

“This one has love for you, Eliz-a-beth,” he murmured. “Since I took you from the sea, we were bound together.” He pulled back, and his eyes sought hers. “Be you content, ki-te-hi, truly?”
― Judith E. French, Lovestorm

“Her dreamlike trance was shattered by a Lenape war cry as Cain swooped down on her, seized her wrists in an iron grip, and pinned her to the ground. “Oh!” she gasped. He crouched over her and stared into her eyes. Cain’s cheekbones bore stripes of blue and red paint, and his features gave no hint of a smile. Excitement tinged with fear bubbled up in Elizabeth’s throat, and she attempted a giggle. “Where did you find the paint?” “Silence woman,” he ordered. “You are my prisoner. I tell you when you can speak.” Elizabeth swallowed and moistened her lips. He’s teasing me, she thought, to get back at me for laughing at him. But an inner voice cautioned, Are you certain? She wiggled in his grasp, and he tightened the pressure on her wrists. “Lie still.” “I would have thought you were too sore to move so fast,” she ventured. His nearness was both frightening and intoxicating. Her mouth felt dry, and her heart was hammering as though she’d been running. She could feel the heat of his body through her clothing. “Let me up before you wrinkle my riding habit.” “If Wishemenetoo had wanted his children to ride on the backs of beasts, he would have made horses that did not come away from the rider,” Cain answered huskily. His eyes narrowed. “And I am certain he did not mean for keequa to make joke at husband’s pain.” “Cain,” she persisted, fighting her own rising desire, “let me go. Someone may see us.” “Robert and your woman go into the forest. This one does not think they will return soon.” A shiver passed through her. Wasn’t this what I had in mind when they wandered off? Didn’t I intend for us to . . . “It’s not safe,” she said. “Edward might—” “He will do nothing. He will lie in his room and drink the fire liquid until his body dies. Can a man who cannot walk alone ride a horse?” “He has spies to watch me. He could—” Cain silenced her with his lips. “I like the taste of you, English equiwa,” he murmured. “I think I keep you.”
― Judith E. French, Lovestorm

“Suddenly, the window swung open and a man’s silhouette appeared against a flash of lightning. The candle was blown out by the wind, leaving the room in semidarkness. Elizabeth blinked, not certain if she had really seen the man or not. “Is someone there?” “Eliz-a-beth.” A shadow detached itself from the darkness and moved toward her. Her heartbeat quickened. “Cain?” “I told you I would come for you, Eliz-a-beth.”
― Judith E. French, Lovestorm

“A slow smile spread over Cain’s face. “Do you have husband?” he asked. She blinked. “What?” “Are your ears full of salt too? I ask you, Englishwoman, do you have husband?” “I told you before, I am betrothed to Edward Lindsey, son of the earl of Dunmore. I am going to Jamestown to be married.” Cain’s smile became a grin. “Good.” “What are you smirking about?” Elizabeth braced her fists against her hips and glared at him. “You’re infuriating,” she sputtered. “You’re crude and barbaric and—” “And I will be your husband,” he said. For seconds, Elizabeth stared at him, too shocked to speak. “What did you say?” she managed. “I take you from the sea,” Cain said, “and I mean to have you for my wife.”
― Judith E. French, Lovestorm

“Ignoring her protests, he swept her up in his arms and carried her toward the hut. “Put me down!” Elizabeth cried. “I said put me down!” Her mouth tasted of ashes, and the sudden knowledge that she was afraid turned her fear into white-hot anger. “Release me at once, you . . . you red savage!” Balling her right hand into a fist, she struck him as hard as she could on the side of the face. Cain gasped, and Elizabeth felt his muscles tense. “Tshingue,” he muttered between clenched teeth. She raised her fist to strike him again. “Do not,” he warned softly. His stride quickened. They were past the hut and moving swiftly toward the beach. “Where are you taking me?” she demanded as the sound of the ocean grew louder. “Cain!” Her voice took on a shrill edge. “Cain!” “You want down,” he said. “You get down.” “Cain, no!” Water splashed around his ankles. “Cain!” “If you have fever, cool.” Without warning, Elizabeth was in the air. Before she could catch her breath, she plunged into the icy water of the Atlantic. “Ohhh!” Coughing and sputtering, she struggled to get her feet under her. An incoming wave tripped her, and before she could recover her balance, an iron hand closed around hers and dragged her back to the beach. She sank down on the warm ground, spitting out sand and salt water. “Damn you,” she choked. “You tried to drown me.” Cain’s answering chuckle was almost more than she could bear. “You’re inhuman!” “This one does not know this word inhuman,″ he said solemnly. “Stop it! Stop taunting me. I hate you!” she cried. He dropped to the sand beside her. “I do not think you hate me.” ″I do! I—” Fiercely, Cain pulled her into his arms and silenced her words with his mouth against hers. Elizabeth tried to pull away, but he was too strong. Her struggles went unheeded as Cain seared her lips with a fiery, all-consuming kiss. Then, as suddenly as he had begun his assault, he released her. “Look into your heart, Englishwoman,” he said huskily. “Wipe the salt from your eyes and truly look. Tell me then if it is hate you feel for Shaakhan Kihittuun.” Before she could reply, he was gone, walking back toward the hut.”
― Judith E. French, Lovestorm

“What are you going to do with me?” “I take you back to the wigwam. If you run about the night with nothing on your feet, you will take again the fever and die.” Elizabeth swallowed hard. Cain’s soft voice had taken on an edge of steel. “And if I refuse?” “You cannot. You are a gift from the sea.” She scanned the ground at her feet for a rock, a stick, anything to defend herself from this savage, but there was nothing. As if reading her mind, Cain sighed in exasperation. “If you run, I run faster. If you strike me, can you know I will not strike harder? Stop acting like spoiled child and return to house. Your soup will be cold.” “How dare you give me orders!” she said. “What right do you have to—” “I have every right,” he replied. “You belong to me.”
― Judith E. French, Lovestorm

“We’ll move again?” she asked. “We?” He tilted her chin up and looked full into her eyes. “This is not an easy life this man offers you.” “Yes, Talon. We. You and I, and the child I’ll bear you in springtime.” “A child?” He pulled her close and held her with strong, loving arms, and she heard the joyous throb of his heart. “When, ki-te-hi?” “When the wild strawberries ripen.” “Then we will break camp when the snows melt and take our canoes south so that our son will be born in Can-tuc-kee. It is a place of tall trees and is thick with game. The grass and water are sweet, and there are no white men there.” “Our son?” She smiled. “Are you a shaman as well that you can tell the sex of an unborn babe?” “Our son or daughter,” he conceded. “It matters not. I will love our child for your sake and mine.”
― Judith E. French, This Fierce Loving

“In my lifetime there has been no peace,” he replied. “But there could be. Promise me that you’ll come for me or that I can come to you if things get better between the whites and the Indians. Promise me, Talon. Please, give me something to hope for.” For a long moment, he stood there holding her in utter silence. “If there is peace, this man will come for you.” “You promise?” “On my mother’s grave. This one will not forget you, my Sweet Water. If we can be together again in honor, it will be.”
― Judith E. French, This Fierce Loving

“He glanced at Sweet Water and thought how short their time together had been . . . not even the turn of a single season. And he wished with all his heart that he and Sweet Water could have seen the wild strawberries blossom in spring and the does lead their young, wobbly legged fawns to the river to drink. He wished they could have lain in each other’s arms and watched the sun go down on a warm summer’s night. He wanted to show her the morning mist on the Ohio, and the first flight of a young eaglet. He wanted to make a child with her . . . a child of their love . . . and see that infant nurse at her warm breast and grow strong and wise. Sweet Water and I could sit by a fire in the autumn of our lives, while shared memories of love and laughter drifted around us like bright fall leaves, he mused . . . while grandchildren tumbled around our feet.”
― Judith E. French, This Fierce Loving

“I love you, my blue-eyed lynx,” he whispered huskily.”
― Judith E. French, This Fierce Loving

“My sky-eyed Becca,” he murmured. “I have always wondered how a human sees out of blue eyes.” His hands were moving over her, making delightful sensations run through her body. “I see well enough,” she teased, “to know a seducer when—” “Is that what this man is?” His fingers drew an imaginary line along her collarbone. “Am I a seducer?” She sighed with pleasure. “That or a sorcerer. You have bewitched me.” “Perhaps it is this haunted valley.” “Perhaps,” she murmured.”
― Judith E. French, This Fierce Loving

“Talon.” Her voice reached him just as he began the first note of his death song and his heart leaped. “Talon. Can you hear me?” He tried to open his eyes, but they were weighed down with mud. He smelled her. She was very close. He wanted to reach out to her, but he was so tired. “Talon.” Something warm and alive brushed his lips. Her caress was sweet and powerful. Feather-light, it jolted him with the intensity of a lightning bolt. If he didn’t hold on to her, the cold mud would seep into his nose and throat and choke the life from him. “Talon . . . don’t die,” she whispered. He opened his eyes just as she kissed him a second time with infinite tenderness. She gasped as he threw his good arm around her and crushed her against him. She was warm and alive. Vision or flesh and blood woman, she’d not leave him. Talon pressed his mouth against hers with searing heat. “Talon,” she cried, as she struggled free of his embrace and stood trembling, apparently unsure whether to run or fling herself back into his arms. “You’re . . . you’re awake,” she managed. A slow smile spread over his face. She covered her mouth with her hand. Her lips were tingling. “I was afraid . . .” she began. “I mean . . . I thought that you . . .” She put distance between them. “Your fever was very high,” she said quickly. “We . . . I was afraid that you—” “I am not dead, Becca,” he said hoarsely. “I . . . can see that.” Unconsciously, she rubbed her mouth. “You . . . you kissed me,” she whispered. “You kissed me first.” She felt giddy. “I did, didn’t I?” He closed his eyes again. “We must talk of this later,” he murmured. “Now, I can’t seem to keep my eyes open.” She reached for the brimming cup of medicine his sister had left when she went out. “You . . . you must have something to drink,” she said. “Are you in pain?” He made a sound that might have been either a low groan or a chuckle. “A man who was not a warrior of the Mecate Shawnee might say that.” “You fought with a bear,” she reminded him. “What shame is there to admit that you hurt? You’re human, aren’t you?” His black eyes snapped open with the intensity of a steel trap. “A Shawnee? Human?” he challenged. “Do you hear what you say?” “By Christ’s wounds, Talon! You’re as human as I am.” He sighed and his eyelids drifted closed. “Remember that, Becca . . . remember. I am just a man. A man . . . who cannot . . . cannot hate his . . . prisoner.”
― Judith E. French, This Fierce Loving

“I don’t want you to die,” she whispered. “I don’t.” Without warning he seized her wrist with his left hand. She gasped as he opened his eyes and stared into hers. “I am glad you no longer want me dead,” he murmured hoarsely. “If you did, I would be easy to kill.” She tried to pull free. “Let me go,” she insisted. “Will you wipe my head again, if I do? I’m hot.” “You’re feverish.” He was looking at her in such a strange way—for an instant, she had the oddest notion that he might kiss her. “And you care for me?” “If you die there will be no one to take me back to the white settlements,” she said. Her words were harsh, but her tone revealed the joy that bubbled up inside her and made her giddy. He smiled and glanced around the longhouse. “Siipu found us?” He caressed her hand with his thumb, making slow, gentle circular motions against her skin. Sweet sensations rippled up her arm and made her pulse quicken. “Siipu? No,” she protested. “It was your brother, Losowahkun, who saved us. He—” “No.” He frowned. “Do not use that name. Siipu. Not my brother, Becca.” “Losowahkun,” she repeated in bewilderment. “He said he was your brother—he wears a deerskin mask.” She was no longer trying to free her hand. She wanted to leave it in his grasp. She fought an impossible urge to throw her arms around his neck and hug him against her. “There can’t be two such—” “Another like her,” he finished. “You are right. But I have no brother. Her name is not Losowahkun—the Burned One. She is Siipu, Creek Water, and she is my beloved sister.”
― Judith E. French, This Fierce Loving

“Be still,” he ordered. Almost gently, he turned her palm so that it was lit by firelight. “Please,” she whimpered. “I don’t—” He raised his eyes and gazed into hers. “I do not hate you, Becca,” he said. “I mean you no harm. So long as my father lives, you are safe with me.” He clasped her hand with his lean, brown fingers. “There is something I do not understand,” he continued softly. “Your flesh is no different from mine.” She shuddered with terror as he pulled his knife from his sheath and sliced the skin on the back of his hand. A thin trickle of blood ran down over her palm. “Do you see?” he asked. “Do you see that my blood is the color of yours? I am a man. I thirst and hunger; my heart is glad when the first flowers bloom through March snow, and I know sorrow when those I love come to grief. Am I so different from an Englishman—an Irishman—a Frenchman? Am I?” She shook her head.”
― Judith E. French, This Fierce Loving

“Realizing that she was clad only in the fur, she pulled it tight around her, trying to cover her legs, her shoulders, and her breasts all at the same time. “You monster!” she said. “You promised me you’d call out before you came back. You tricked me.” She grabbed her shift and retreated to the shadows in the back of the cave. “I did call you,” he said. “You were sleeping like a bear in winter. I killed the turkey, plucked it, and cooked it. Still you slept. I think Simon Brandt has a lazy woman for a wife.” Rebecca sputtered, too angry for words, as she struggled to get into her shift without dropping the wolfskin. She did notice that not only was she dry, but her garment was dry as well. She had been asleep, and not just for a few moments. “You seem to have lost your dress,” he said, “so I brought you the Huron’s French coat instead. I think it will fit you if you tie his belt around your waist.” He reached over and held up a blue men’s military jacket. “You expect me to wear a dead man’s coat?” “You will wear it, woman, or I will take your last garment and leave you only the wolf pelt to wear.” “Go to hell!” she shouted. “If the English are right about their god, I will. But what if the Shawnee are right, and you are wrong. Have you thought of that?” “No.” “Think of it while you eat my turkey and sit at my fire. Perhaps it will help you to be properly grateful to a man who has gone to great lengths to keep you from harm.” “I’ll never be grateful to you.” He smiled. “But you will eat my turkey.” She nodded. “Only to have enough strength to live long enough to see you hanged for the savage you are.”
― Judith E. French, This Fierce Loving

“I am a warrior. I kill because I must. I kill to protect those who cannot protect themselves—and you did not thank me for saving your life, but you are welcome, just the same.”
― Judith E. French, This Fierce Loving

“When I say you will bathe, Becca Brandt, you will bathe,” he hissed. She shrieked as he swept her up into his arms. Suddenly, she was flying through the air. Before she could scream again, she hit the water. The shock of the numbing cold stream drove everything but self-preservation from her mind. She struggled to get her head above the surface, came up sputtering and gasping for breath, lost her balance, and fell under again. Strong hands closed around her shoulders and lifted her to her feet. As the panic receded, she realized that the water was only waist deep and she was in no danger of drowning. “By the great deeds of Glooskap! Are you possessed of a demon, woman, that you try me so? Can you not bathe without drowning yourself?” She stared at him through dripping strands of hair and cursed him with the foulest expletive she could muster. “Good,” he said. “If you can call me names, you’ve enough breath to survive.” He let go of her and waded out of the creek. “I will go downstream,” he said, “and wash my own body. See that you clean your hair properly, or I will throw you in again and do it myself.” “You . . . you’re crazy!” she said with chattering teeth. “I’m . . . freezing!” “Then wash quickly and return to the fire. I’ll try and find us something to break our fast.” “Fiend!” she shouted at his broad back. He must be an animal not to feel the cold, she thought, as she splashed half-heartedly in the shallows. Her feet and legs were solid ice. Her body shook with chills. “Damn him,” she muttered. “Damn him to a frozen hell.”
― Judith E. French, This Fierce Loving

“Talon rocked her against his chest, cradling her as one would a feverish child. “Shhh, shhh,” he soothed in Algonquian. “He is not dead.” She opened her eyes, and he knew from her glazed expression that she wasn’t seeing his face, but the haunting shadows of the spirit world. “Nuwi,” he coaxed. “Come back to me.” He dared not handle her roughly. Did not the shamans speak of dreaming souls that broke free from sleepers to drift away into the spirit world and never return? “Nuwi, Becca.” She whimpered and slipped her arms around his neck. He felt the shudders rack her body as she clung to him. “He’s not dead,” she whispered hoarsely. “No,” he repeated in English. “He is not dead.” She took a deep breath and her eyes closed. Her trembling lessened and color flowed into her cheeks. This time when her lashes parted, she saw him. She stiffened and gave a fearful cry, striking at him with her hands and trying to break free. “Ku,” he said. “No—do not be afraid. I will not harm you.” He released her and she tore loose from his arms and scrambled away until she reached the walls of the cave. “Do not be afraid,” he said impatiently. “You . . . you . . .” She gasped, clutching her arms against her body. “You cried out,” he explained, feeling foolish. “You had a dream.” “Yes.” Her voice was dry and rasping, her eyes wide with alarm. “You were very loud,” he chided. “I thought your screeching would bring the Huron.” “You . . . you touched me,” she said accusingly. “I touched you—as I would a terrified child or a startled horse.” “A horse?” He noticed spots of high color in her fair-skinned, oval face, a startling contrast to her vivid blue eyes and dark arching brows. Her fear was quickly turning to indignation. He gazed intensely at her delicate English features. Her nose was thin, sprinkled with freckles and slightly tilted at the tip. Without realizing that he was doing so, he smiled. Such a foolish nose for a woman—he didn’t think he had ever seen one quite like it. Her mouth was full, her lips plump and red as the first wild strawberries in May. “How dare you compare me to a horse?” she demanded hotly. “A horse?” He chuckled, remembering his words. “A horse was not the best comparison,” he conceded. “I may be your prisoner, but I have rights.” His mood shifted. “No,” he said sharply, remembering too how she had fitted neatly into his arms. “No. A prisoner has no rights—none but those her captor gives her. You are the wife of my enemy. Expect nothing from me, and be grateful for what I give.”
― Judith E. French, This Fierce Loving

“Sweat streaked her face and darkened her red hair. Her free hand was scratched and bleeding where she had scraped it against a thorn tree. He caught that small hand in his and held it up to examine the wound. The tip of a broken thorn was embedded in her palm. He raised her hand to his lips and felt the splinter with the tip of his tongue. She gasped and pulled her hand back. “Be still,” he admonished. “Do you want me to cut it out with my knife?” A thorn could fester and turn flesh black with poison. Dead, she was of no use to him. She shook her head. Her hand trembled as she held it out to him. Her sky eyes were wary, the expression like that of a doe he had once seen crossing a frozen lake in winter. The ice had been rotten, and it creaked ominously with each step the deer took. Still she had continued on until she reached the far bank and safety. He wondered if firm earth waited for this female with the strange blue eyes. Eventual safety or . . . A shudder of revulsion rippled through him. War should be between men, he thought. And no matter how much contempt he felt for Simon Brandt and those he led to Indian country, he could not find it in his heart to despise this courageous woman, even if she was without honor. Gently, he bent and brushed his lips against her hand, then, when he found the thorn with his tongue, he closed his teeth on it and pulled it free. Blood welled up from her palm as he spat out the bit of wood. He scooped up a handful of snow and pressed it against the injury. She blinked. Moisture glistened in her round eyes and for a second he thought she might begin to cry. Then her eyes narrowed and the expression gleaming there hardened. Again, Talon reminded himself that she was his enemy’s wife, and that she wished him dead.”
― Judith E. French, This Fierce Loving