Honeybun in a Loin Cloth

CHAPTER TWO-2

DINI LOOKED AROUND at the players in the field. She saw a lot of familiar faces...a lot of friends. The paint and wigs and strange, bulky clothing only added to the sense of belonging she always felt during reenactment weekends. As a half natural American, half black woman who’d struggled with her identity in a world with lots of preconceptions, it was one of the rare times in her life that she felt comfortable in her own skin.

Living her roots for a few days had always been a cathartic experience for Dini. Her whole silent Indian act had been part of her role. It felt right and people seemed to accept that she should be that way. It was one of the reasons she loved coming to the reenactments.

But this time something was different. Something she didn’t understand.

This time someone was trying to kill her.

Among those familiar faces were some that were strange to her. Those faces made Dini uncomfortable. Behind one of those faces could be a mind with a grudge. Someone whose unreasonable fear might result in her death.

Dini shivered, rubbing her arms under the soft linen of her Molly costume. Her head jerked up in instinctive awareness a second before the woman beside her sucked air into her lungs in a heartfelt gasp.

It was several seconds before the tittering began. That was coming from the male half of the group.

None of the women were laughing. They were all dumbstruck, their eyes glazed with lust.

A warrior strode down the hill toward them. He was tall, with long muscles that flexed as he glided down the hill, his softly shod feet easily picking a path through the rocks and benches made of half logs that were set into the side of the hill. He moved with the grace of a wild feline, his broad shoulders swinging as he moved, the muscles in his arms bunching as he opened and closed his fists.

His dark hair was swept back, away from a strong face with a square jaw that was covered in dark bristle. Owl feathers formed a perfect arc at the back of his head.

Though he was very lean, his chest was broad and smooth, the pecs impressive beneath the warlike red of his body paint.

Buckskin leathers, decorated with small, multicolored beads over the shins, drooped perfectly just above his knees. The expanse of lean, muscular thigh above the leggings made Dini’s knees go weak. Her gaze drifted slowly upward, to the place where his loin cloth ended the delectable view and she almost cried out from the injustice of being denied.

But then he turned slightly sideways, lifting a softly shod foot to the last bench on the side of the hill, and she caught a glimpse of muscular, perfectly formed male buttock.

Dini stopped breathing.

She forgot, just for a moment, that she was at a reenactment of the Battle of Koh koh mah, and was carried back in time. Suddenly, she was an Indian Princess, watching a powerful warrior enter her sphere of existence.

He moved with tightly bound aggression. His muscles were taut with it. Antagonism painted every lean, masculine inch of his long form. His face was dark and forbidding under the red paint, his expression intense and focused.

He was warrior personified.

And she wanted him with every fiber of her being.

“Good heavens!” The woman beside her said in a voice clenched with need. Dini felt a hand on her forearm as the woman’s knees apparently threatened to give out on her.

Clutching a musket in one large hand, the warrior found the flat ground of the reenactment theater and strode purposefully toward a group of soldiers. He wore a scowl on his face that promised someone would pay.

His deep-set gray eyes were dark with anger, and his wide mouth was tight with it. Amid much male laughter, he strode toward his cousin, Dolfe Honeybun, with murder in his eye.

Not a single female eye was looking at his face. The women’s gazes were all locked on the play of fine muscle in the man’s taut, round behind as he moved, the wind lifting his loin cloth with every step, to highlight a slightly different area of naked, male buttock for their viewing pleasure.

Dini sighed. The woman whose hand clasped her forearm was vibrating. Behind them, a high-pitched giggle preceded the sound of a feminine growl.

Only Godric’s obvious discomfort kept Dini from truly enjoying the view.

He stopped in front of his cousin and lifted his musket. It was fitted with a rectangular shaped blade, a bayonet, which Godric slid toward his cousin’s crotch.

Dolfe laughed, jumping backward. “Whoa, Godric! Watch where you’re pointin’ that thing.”

“I know exactly where my bayonet is pointed, Dolfe.”

The assemblage of men laughed. One of the British soldiers reached over and smacked Godric on an exposed cheek. The musket swung toward him, the dull end of the bayonet embedding itself in the dense folds of the man’s red and cream coat. “Touch me again, Peters and I’ll carve you into brisket and serve you up with Dolfe’s balls for potatoes.”

“A good British meal. Bland and unexciting.” A French officer declared loudly. The French soldiers laughed.

Resplendent in gray-blue and cream, with his tri-cornered hat pushed back off his head to show the part in the center of his white wig, the officer stepped forward in defense of Godric. The man was smiling as he poked the British officer in the shoulder. “I told you last night you had a small cannon, Peters. You don’t have the Indians on your side either. It’s a miracle you managed to win this war.”

Andy stepped into the group at that point, waving his hands to disperse them. “Let’s get this underway, folks. We’re almost an hour behind schedule.”

Dini watched the two Honeybuns as the rest of the men dispersed. Dolfe continued to grin but Godric wasn’t smiling.

“What did you do with my pants, Dolfe?”

“Did you check the fire pit?”

Godric shook his head, clearly disgusted. “You will pay for that, old dog. You have my promise.”

Dolfe reached out and clapped Godric on a naked, red shoulder. “As long as Clovis stays in Indy I’m okay. I think I can take you in a fight, doc.”

Godric laughed. “I wouldn’t count on it, Dolfe. I’m wearing moccasins and I have my scalpin’ knife. You won’t even hear me coming. All of that bright, blond hair will make a great scalp for my belt.”

Dolfe chuckled and turned away, heading for his spot in the lines, on the British side.

Godric headed toward the French lines.

Dini watched him approach. She was playing a Molly, one of the women who came in behind the battle lines to help the wounded, providing water and whatever aid and comfort they could provide until the doctor arrived.

Her breath caught in her throat as he moved toward her, looking every bit the warrior he portrayed. His gaze slid to her and he smiled for the first time since he’d arrived on the field of battle. Though he held the musket down at his side to hide his real assets from her view.

Dina returned his smile and forced her gaze away, finding that her mouth was dryer than it should be and her palms wet. Something about Godric Honeybun affected her. Affected her strongly. That was as good a reason as any to stay away from him.