Savage Illusions Read online

  CASSIE EDWARDS

  THE SAVAGE SERIES

  CONTENTS

  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

  Chap­ter Twen­ty-Se­ven

  Chap­ter Twen­ty-Eight

  Chap­ter Twen­ty-Ni­ne

  Chap­ter Thirty

  Chap­ter Thir­ty-One

  Chap­ter Thir­ty-Two

  Chap­ter Thir­ty-Th­ree

  Chap­ter Thir­ty-Fo­ur

  Chap­ter Thir­ty-Fi­ve

  Chap­ter Thir­ty-Six

  Winner of the Ro­man­tic Ti­mes Li­fe­ti­me Ac­hi­eve­ment Award for Best In­di­an Se­ri­es

  "Cassie Ed­wards wri­tes ac­ti­on-pac­ked, sexy re­ads! Ro­man­ce fans will be mo­re than sa­tis­fi­ed!"

  Ro­man­tic Ti­mes

  SAVAGE ILLUSION

  "I've ne­ver felt so ali­ve," Jole­na sa­id. "I fe­el wic­ked. What ca­me over me?"

  Spotted Eag­le drew her aga­inst him. "You are not wic­ked. What you did was do­ne out of lo­ve. I will che­rish the­se mo­ments. So sho­uld you."

  She le­aned her che­ek aga­inst his chest. "Oh, how I want to. It was pu­re he­aven, be­ing with you. I've ne­ver felt so free, yet so pos­ses­sed. How can that be?"

  "Loving fi­er­cely is a com­bi­na­ti­on of the two. Let that frig­h­ten you not. I wel­co­me be­ing pos­ses­sed by you. I will ne­ver be lo­nely aga­in."

  "I fe­el so many things," Jole­na sa­id, clin­ging to him, lo­ving him so. "But most of all, I fe­el an in­ten­se hap­pi­ness. Hold me, Spot­ted Eag­le. I ne­ver want to le­ave you."

  He crad­led her, his eyes clo­sed to the past, thin­king only of the fu­tu­re and this wo­man who had awa­ke­ned him aga­in to lo­ving…

  Other Le­isu­re and Lo­ve Spell Bo­oks by Cas­sie Ed­wards:

  TOUCH THE WILD WIND

  ROSES AFTER RAIN

  WHEN PASSION CALLS

  EDEN'S PROMISE

  ISLAND RAPTURE

  SECRETS OF MY HEART

  The Savage Series:

  SAVAGE SECRETS

  SAVAGE PRIDE

  SAVAGE SPIRIT

  SAVAGE EMBERS

  SAVAGE ILLUSION

  SAVAGE SUNRISE

  SAVAGE MISTS

  SAVAGE PROMISE

  SAVAGE PERSUASION

  Savage Illusion

  Cassie Edwards

  With much affection I dedicate Savage Illusion to Donna Ingersoll, a dear, sweet fan who has become an enduring friend.

  Cassie Edwards

  A LEISURE BOOK®

  September

  Published by

  Dorchester Pub­lis­hing Co., Inc.

  Fifth Ave­nue

  New York, NY

  If you pur­c­ha­sed this bo­ok wit­ho­ut a co­ver you sho­uld be awa­re that this bo­ok is sto­len pro­perty. It was re­por­ted as "unsold and des­t­ro­yed" to the pub­lis­her and ne­it­her the aut­hor nor the pub­lis­her has re­ce­ived any pay­ment for this "strip­ped bo­ok."

  Copyright © by Cas­sie Ed­wards

  Cover Art by John En­nis

  All rights re­ser­ved. No part of this bo­ok may be rep­ro­du­ced or tran­s­mit­ted in any form or by any elec­t­ro­nic or mec­ha­ni­cal me­ans, in­c­lu­ding pho­to­cop­ying, re­cor­ding or by any in­for­ma­ti­on sto­ra­ge and ret­ri­eval system, wit­ho­ut the writ­ten per­mis­si­on of the Pub­lis­her, ex­cept whe­re per­mit­ted by law.

  The na­me "Le­isu­re Bo­oks" and the styli­zed "L" with de­sign are tra­de­marks of Dor­c­hes­ter Pub­lis­hing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the Uni­ted Sta­tes of Ame­ri­ca.

  I see you in my mind,

  Touch you in my dreams,

  Your voice keeps calling to me,

  A spirit that's wild and free.

  I feel your breath caress my neck,

  As I turn to you to say,

  I will love you for forever,

  Only to find, you've gone away.

  Were you ever really there?

  What is this thought that torments me so?

  And I am caught between two worlds,

  As if I lived another life long ago.

  I feel your strength in the wind,

  Sense your gaze through the sun,

  Hear your voice speak to me in the streams,

  You keep saying, "This love has only begun."

  I lie in sleepless nights,

  Staring out at the dark sky,

  Then I feel a breeze blowing,

  And I know you are at my side.

  I can almost see your eyes,

  As they stare at me in the night.

  I can just about feel your arms,

  They are warm, and hold me tight.

  "Come back to me," you whisper,

  As I feel my heart start to race.

  I will somehow, my love.

  I'll find you somewhere, some place.

  I'll not stop until I'm home,

  Back with my People, and my heart.

  I will never stop searching till I find you.

  And when I do, I know we'll never again be apart.

  Sheila Bilbrey

  Chapter One

  The Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory 1852

  The bull tra­in, con­sis­ting of fo­ur eig­ht-yo­ke te­ams, dra­wing twel­ve co­ve­red wa­gons, mo­ved slowly thro­ugh the wind-blown tall buf­fa­lo grass, fol­lo­wing the Yel­low­s­to­ne Ri­ver that ran sna­ke-li­ke thro­ugh the Mon­ta­na Ter­ri­tory.

  It was August, a per­fect ti­me of the ye­ar for tra­ve­ling. To the west ro­se the dark Roc­ki­es, the­ir sharp pe­aks stan­ding out sharply aga­inst the pa­le blue sky. Nor­t­h­ward we­re the three but­tes of the Swe­et­g­rass Hills. Eas­t­ward dimly lo­omed the Be­ar Paws; So­uth, ac­ross the Yel­low­s­to­ne Ri­ver, the pi­ne-clad Hig­h­wo­od Mo­un­ta­ins we­re in pla­in sight.

  On all si­des buf­fa­lo and an­te­lo­pe gra­zed qu­i­etly on the he­althy, spring-fed grass. Sit­ting in the le­ad wa­gon, in the sha­de of the can­vas that had be­en stret­c­hed over the se­at to pro­tect the new mot­her and child from the hot rays of the sun, we­re Bryce Ed­monds and his wi­fe Char­lot­te.

  Charlotte ga­zed lo­vingly down at her two-we­ek-old son, ado­ring him, yet reg­ret­ting that he had not be­en born in mo­re ci­vi­li­zed sur­ro­un­dings, with a re­al doc­tor to lo­ok af­ter her, a re­al bed on which to be com­for­tab­le, and with fo­od re­adily ava­ilab­le. As it was, the ex­pe­di­ti­on's fo­od supply had dwin­d­led, and ever­y­t­hing was now be­ing ra­ti­oned un­til they re­ac­hed the Mis­so­uri Ri­ver, whe­re they co­uld bo­ard a ste­am­bo­at and re­turn to the com­forts of the­ir pa­la­ti­al ho­me in Sa­int Lo­u­is.

  When Char­lot­te had of­fe­red to jo­in the­se le­pi­dop­te­rists, led by her hus­band, s
he had not even tho­ught of be­co­ming preg­nant on the long, ti­ring jo­ur­ney.

  It had just hap­pe­ned.

  "Are you too di­sap­po­in­ted, de­ar?" Char­lot­te as­ked, ga­zing lo­vingly at Bryce, her hus­band of six ye­ars, who­se blond ha­ir had ble­ac­hed al­most whi­te be­ne­ath the hot Mon­ta­na sun.

  But the sun had not chan­ged his han­d­so­me­ness. Even now, sit­ting so clo­se to him on the rug­ged se­at of the wa­gon, she wan­ted to re­ach out and to­uch his fa­ce or run her fin­gers thro­ugh his thick ha­ir. She lo­ved him mo­re each day, as tho­ugh each was the­ir first kiss, the­ir first ca­ress.

  When a fly star­ted buz­zing aro­und the fa­ce of her son, her tho­ughts we­re aver­ted to things ot­her than ro­man­cing her be­lo­ved hus­band. She sho­o­ed the fly away from her child, who­se tiny lips we­re con­ten­tedly suc­k­ling at her bre­ast.

  Her Kirk.

  Her ado­rab­le Kirk.

  She had fo­ught off mos­qu­ito­es, ticks, and fli­es un­til she was we­ary from it all.

  Bryce cast Char­lot­te an easy smi­le.

  ''Am I di­sap­po­in­ted over ha­ving not fo­und the eup­ha­ed­ra?" he sa­id, re­fer­ring to the ra­re Ve­ne­zu­elan but­terfly they had be­en hun­ting. "Naw, can't say that I am."

  His ga­ze shif­ted, enj­oying the sight of his son nur­sing from his mot­her's milk-fil­led bre­ast. It was a sight that wo­uld lin­ger in his me­mory un­til the day he di­ed. It was so won­der­ful to fi­nal­ly ha­ve a child.

  After fi­ve ye­ars of trying, he and his wi­fe had al­most gi­ven up on ever ha­ving chil­d­ren. Then, sud­denly, as tho­ugh so­me­one had to­uc­hed Char­lot­te's womb with a ma­gic wand, she was preg­nant. That the child had be­en born in the midst of such har­d­s­hip se­emed al­most a mi­rac­le. In­de­ed, it was a mi­rac­le that any of them we­re ali­ve.

  There we­re In­di­ans ever­y­w­he­re: the Cree, the Crow, the Blac­k­fo­ot. For so­me re­ason, this wa­gon tra­in had be­en spa­red any ra­ids, as tho­ugh God we­re the­re with them every inch of the jo­ur­ney, wat­c­hing over them.

  "I wo­uld ha­ve be­en ter­ribly di­sap­po­in­ted over not fin­ding the ra­re but­terfly," he con­ti­nu­ed, nod­ding. "But that lit­tle sur­p­ri­se pac­ka­ge you're hol­ding in yo­ur arms ma­kes all the dif­fe­ren­ce in the world in my at­ti­tu­de. I co­uldn't be hap­pi­er, dar­ling. First the pret­ti­est wo­man in Sa­int Lo­u­is ac­cepts my pro­po­sal of mar­ri­age, then I am ap­po­in­ted cu­ra­tor at the sci­en­ce mu­se­um, and then, by God, to top it off, I now ha­ve a son. Who co­uld com­p­la­in, dar­ling? Who?"

  "But you so lo­oked for­ward to fin­ding the eup­ha­ed­ra," Char­lot­te sa­id, easing Kirk's lips from her bre­ast as his eyes clo­sed in a con­ten­ted sle­ep. She wrap­ped him in a lig­h­t­we­ight blan­ket and crad­led him in her left arm as she be­gan re­but­to­ning her dress. "If you had ca­ught it, you co­uld ha­ve com­p­le­ted yo­ur col­lec­ti­on. Then you co­uld set­tle down and wri­te that bo­ok that you ha­ve spo­ken of so of­ten to mea bo­ok ex­p­la­ining yo­ur ven­tu­res and all the but­ter­f­li­es that you ha­ve cap­tu­red in de­ta­il, as well as the li­fe his­tory of each. How ni­ce it wo­uld ha­ve be­en, dar­ling, if…"

  Bryce re­tur­ned his eyes to the tra­il, so that Char­lot­te wo­uld not see the di­sap­po­in­t­ment that lay sha­do­wed in the­ir depths. He had sworn that the ex­pe­di­ti­on's fa­ilu­re was not tro­ub­ling him, yet in truth, it was eating away at his gut.

  "There'll be anot­her ti­me, anot­her pla­ce," he sa­id. "Right now all I'm con­cen­t­ra­ting on is get­ting you and Kirk out of In­di­an ter­ri­tory and to the sa­fety of a ste­am­bo­at. It sho­uldn't be much lon­ger now, dar­ling. We may even re­ach the Mis­so­uri by sun­down to­night."

  The tho­ught that this dre­ad­ful jo­ur­ney was so­on to be be­hind her ex­ci­ted Char­lot­te.

  Something up ahe­ad, lying on the gro­und just be­yond the sha­de of so­me tall bus­hes, drew Char­lot­te's at­ten­ti­on. She le­aned her he­ad for­ward, then gas­ped when she saw that it was not an ani­mal, but a li­fe­less hand.

  Charlotte pa­led at the tho­ught of co­ming ac­ross so­me­one that had be­en mur­de­red, even per­haps scal­ped by the In­di­ans. It wo­uld be the­ir luck, she tho­ught to her­self, to just ba­rely get wit­hin sight of the ste­am­bo­at and the In­di­ans co­me down upon them with a ven­ge­an­ce.

  "Bryceup ahe­ad, do you see?" Char­lot­te sa­id, po­in­ting. They we­re clo­se eno­ugh now for her to see that this was not the hand of a whi­te per­son.

  It was cop­per in co­lor!

  It was an In­di­an's!

  A pa­nic se­ized Char­lot­te's in­si­des, fe­aring this might be a trap.

  "By God, it's a hand," Bryce sa­id, dra­wing re­in and stop­ping the slow-tra­ve­ling bulls.

  Charlotte grab­bed for Bryce's arm. "Be ca­re­ful," she whis­pe­red, her eyes wild. "It co­uld be a trap. We co­uld be at­tac­ked by In­di­ans any mi­nu­te now."

  Bryce re­ac­hed a gen­t­le hand to her flus­hed che­ek. "Now, now," he sa­id, as tho­ugh he we­re so­ot­hing a child. "Let's not let our ima­gi­na­ti­on run away with us."

  He drew his hand away from her and le­aned out so that he co­uld see the ot­her wa­gons that had co­me to a de­ad halt be­hind his, his tra­ve­ling com­pa­ni­ons al­re­ady off the­ir wa­gons and he­ading hur­ri­edly to­ward him.

  Bryce ga­ve Char­lot­te anot­her qu­ick glan­ce. "You don't le­ave this wa­gon un­less it's at my si­de, do you he­ar?" he sa­id sternly. He re­ac­hed back in­si­de his wa­gon and grab­bed a small, pe­arl-han­d­led pis­tol. "If I don't get back to you, and you and our child be­co­me thre­ate­ned by a red­s­kinby God, wo­man, sho­ot to kill."

  Charlotte flin­c­hed at the sight of the fi­re­arm, ha­ving ne­ver li­ked them. But ha­ving no cho­ice, she to­ok the pis­tol and held it tightly wit­hin her grip as she wat­c­hed Bryce le­ave the wa­gon, wa­rily ap­pro­ac­hing the de­ad per­son. His pis­tol was drawn, and the ot­her men we­re ar­med with rif­les.

  Bryce crept slowly to­ward the hand, and when he saw that the­re was no one the­re, re­ady to po­un­ce on him, he swung his pis­tol back in­to its hol­s­ter and hur­ri­ed on­ward.

  When he se­pa­ra­ted the lo­wer bran­c­hes of the bus­hes and got a clo­ser lo­ok, he was stun­ned at what he dis­co­ve­red.

  "It's an In­di­an wo­man and a chil­dI'd say no mo­re than a few ho­urs old," one of his com­pa­ni­ons sa­id, mir­ro­ring Bryce's very tho­ughts. "And, Bryce, the wo­man is de­ad."

  Bryce knelt down be­si­de the wo­man and clo­sed her eyes, then gently pic­ked the child up in­to his arms. It was ap­pa­rent that the mot­her had at le­ast ma­na­ged to cut the um­bi­li­cal cord, but she had su­rely di­ed be­fo­re she had a chan­ce to cle­an­se the child, or per­haps even fe­ed it.

  The dark eyes of the baby lo­oked up at Bryce trus­tingly. Then the child be­gan to cry sof­t­l­ya cry of hun­ger…

  Without fur­t­her tho­ught, Bryce car­ri­ed the tiny thing to the wa­gon.

  "Oh, my lord, it's a baby," Char­lot­te sa­id, gas­ping.

  "The mot­her is de­ad," Bryce sa­id sadly, hol­ding the baby out so that Char­lot­te co­uld see the in­fant bet­ter. "The child is a girl. Isn't she just too be­a­uti­ful, Char­lot­te?"

  "Oh, yes. So very," Char­lot­te sa­id softly, the baby's cri­es te­aring at her in­si­des. "But the po­or thing. Su­rely she's hungry." She glan­ced down at Kirk, then at her milk-fil­led bre­asts, so he­avy she knew that she had mo­re than eno­ugh milk for two chil­d­ren.

  She tur­ned a smi­ling fa­ce to her hus­band. "Let me fe­ed her," she mur­mu­red. She re­ac­hed a hand out to Bryce. "Ple­ase, dar­ling? If not, she may die
."

  "For su­re she wo­uld," he sa­id. "But let me gi­ve her a qu­ick was­hing. I'll bring her to you then."

  The ot­hers had co­me to the­ir wa­gon and we­re wat­c­hing. Bryce to­ok the child to the back of his wa­gon. Ta­king warm wa­ter from a can­te­en, he bat­hed the baby, then to­ok her to Char­lot­te, han­ding the child up to her af­ter she had pla­ced Kirk com­for­tably ac­ross her lap.