Gypsy Moon (12 page)

He looked at her, but his eyes remained unfocused. Spitting out the rawhide, he gasped, “Go away! Get out of here!”

Another scream escaped him. The moon was turning from gold to silver. Charlotte composed herself as best she could and bent down to retrieve the badly chewed rawhide. Carefully she slid it back between his teeth. It muffled his next cry of pain.

She looked about and spied a pitcher. Pouring spring water into a basin, she knelt beside Mateo and began to bathe his face, neck, and heaving chest.

“I’m going to untie your wrists, Mateo.”

She reached carefully for the leather thongs, wondering if she was doing the right thing. A moment later, she found out. His freed right hand lashed out as if of its own volition, striking her across the breasts. A sharp pain shot through her and she gasped.

Mateo, meanwhile, had spat out the rawhide once more. His face contorted painfully as he tried to form words. At last they came. “Go, Charlotte… before… before…”

Tears filled her eyes. He knew who she was! At least that was something. Bending over him, she took hold of his shoulders and forced him to lie back.

“I’m not going anywhere, Mateo. Not until you’re better.”

“I hurt you,” he managed to say.

“You didn’t mean to.”

She continued bathing his brow while he was calm. Busy at her task, she never noticed that the wind had blown open the unlaced tent flap and one silver streak from the full moon was inching its way in. Slowly it crept, feeling its way—searching, probing, intent on evil.

When Mateo’s body strained in another spasm, Charlotte leaned forward, pressing with all her weight to hold him still. She wrestled with him, pinning his arms to his sides. She was heaving with exhaustion by the time the spell had passed.

Then, for a time, he grew too still. His eyes were closed. His body felt cold and there was a silvery pallor about his face. Charlotte leaned close to his open mouth, terrified that he might have stopped breathing. Suddenly his arms closed about her, bruising her ribs, and he ravaged her with a brutal kiss. She struggled against him, but there was no freeing herself from his crushing embrace. He seemed to be trying to draw the last breath from her body. She felt dizzy, disoriented. This was not Mateo, but some savage stranger, unleashing his brutal lust upon her. Clawlike hands tore at her clothes, she felt her blouse being ripped away, felt her bare breasts cool against Mateo’s fevered chest. She fought desperately. But she might as well have been a day-old kitten fighting a raging lion. Mateo was a strong man. His moon madness tripled that strength.

She lay against him panting, not knowing what she could do or what he would do next. For the moment, he seemed calm again. Although he still held her prisoner in his arms, his head was thrown back and he was breathing deeply and evenly. He appeared to be recovering himself.

“Mateo?” she ventured.

At the sound of her voice, his head shot up again. He glared at her with wild, unfocused eyes. Letting his big hand slide down her body, his fingers bit into her waist and he forced her onto her back beside him. The skins that had been tangled about him fell away. For the first time, Charlotte realized that Mateo was naked. A harsh beam of moonlight silvered his belly and made a thick, gleaming dagger of his erect penis. She gave a startled cry. He echoed and intensified the sound with another pained scream. Doubling up, he fell over her, writhing and clutching at her breasts with pain-cramped fingers. Charlotte could only lie there and pray that the moon would wane before Mateo destroyed them both.

Again he forced her mouth to obey his savage will. Still his hands kneaded her soft, bruised flesh. Then, slowly, his fingers moved down her torso, gripping the waistband of her skirt. She heard the sharp rip before she realized what was happening. An instant later, Mateo raised himself from her long enough to yank the rest of her clothes away.

Flesh met flesh with a shattering impact. Charlotte’s resistance was feeble at best. Her body ached from trying to fight him off. It was no use. Besides, wasn’t this what she had wanted all along? If he was less than gentle, did that matter so very much?

Yes, dammit, it did matter!

The man Charlotte desired was the tender, passionate Gypsy
Rom
she had come to love. If this savage, lust-filled stranger took her, it would mean nothing. Would Mateo even know that he had made her his when the last moonbeam faded with the dawn? That was what hurt most of all.

“Please, Mateo, love me, but love me gently,” she begged.

Already he was poised for the thrust. Through her tears, she could see the outline of his hard body straining above hers. He hunched over her—a beast about to mount its mate. The hot pulse pressed between her thighs jerked and prodded at her in anticipation. A moment more and it would be done.

“Mateo, can you hear me? It’s Charlotte. Please don’t hurt me!”

He hesitated, seemingly trying to understand or make up his mind. Charlotte took hope. Perhaps the madness was wearing off. Perhaps he had some inkling of who she was and what he was about to do to her.

“Charlotte?” he said, his voice sounding almost normal.

“Oh, yes, Mateo!” she cried, frantic now with relief and happiness. He was coming around.

Just then, a vicious gust of wind whipped the tent flap back. Squarely framed in canvas, the small, pale silver sphere cast its dying light upon them. Mateo gave an anguished cry. Charlotte watched the muscles bunch in his shoulders, gathering strength—shuddering, straining, making ready.

This is Mateo, she told herself. You have nothing to fear.

Charlotte closed her eyes and gripped the coarse fur rug beneath her, steeling herself. She forced her mind to think of him as he had been that night by the stream—as he had always been… except for now. She could endure anything at his hands. She loved him. She would welcome him; for to fight him would be madness on her own part. She willed her body to relax. Now, though still crying softly, she smiled. She was ready.

A strange fever seemed to enter her mind the moment Mateo forced his way into her body. Her senses reeled crazily. She felt disoriented and filled with a wild, inexplicable panic. This was a torture like none she had ever imagined. But oddly enough, as this terrible spell seized her, Mateo grew calm. It was almost as if through her love she was drawing the torment from his body and soul into her own.

Soon her terror vanished with her pain. Each new thrust soothed her torn flesh and righted her confused mind. She tensed once more, but this time with a new sensation. Mateo had brought her through the cruel gate to some new and fantastic realm. Here they walked together, hand in hand, body in body, and the sun, not the moon, shone down on them in all its glory. Charlotte had no idea where he was taking her, but she knew that she had been searching for this unknown paradise all her life.

He rode her expertly, with the same combination of fiery command and loving gentleness that he used in handling his Black Devil. And Charlotte responded to the great
graiengeri’s
touch.

His lips and tongue had lost their harshness. His hands on her breasts no longer bruised, but pleasured. She felt her nipples straining to be stroked. And the battering of his hips had become an undulating series of waves, smashing on her ready shore. She rose and fell to meet him. She welcomed him, drawing him deep into her body, feeling his caresses in the very core of her.

Suddenly, the sun inside her head and heart became blinding. She thrust at Mateo with a fury, begging him for something—she knew not what. And then she felt it coming—ever nearer, ever sweeter. A tidal wave of sensations rose within her, dashing all else in its wake. Her sweating, love-scented body quaked under the impact. A feeling totally new to her surged through every muscle, bone, and sinew. She shuddered against Mateo, holding him close, kissing him, adoring him for what he had given her.

Her lover clutched her tightly, and she could feel the throb of him deep inside her. Suddenly he held very still. A tremor ran through him. A spasm jerked his hips. The next instant she felt the precious deluge filling her with his princely seed. A new kind of pleasure washed over her and trembled through them both. Now, as never before, they were one.

Mateo held her a moment more, then rolled away. He lay on his back, breathing heavily, one arm thrown over his eyes. He sighed and reached out to touch her breast. For a long, silent time he stroked the full nipple. She lay very still, marveling at the way she felt—full, warm,
loved.

The sun’s first rays penetrated the opening of the tent. Charlotte heard birds outside chirping their waking songs. Somewhere a Gypsy mongrel barked, a kettle clanged, a horse neighed sleepily. The terrible, beautiful night of the full moon was past.

Mateo reached out and took Charlotte’s hand. “Oh, my
sunaki bal,
what have I done to you?”

“Only what Fate intended, my darling.”

She leaned over and touched his lips in a gentle, loving kiss.

Major Winston Krantz stood in his sparsely furnished quarters at Fort Leavenworth, perspiring mightily as he donned his battle garb. The whole idea of this expedition irked him. He wouldn’t have minded so much if a band of scalp-stealing Indians had been the day’s intended quarry. That was what he was out here for, after all. But this…
this was uncivilized madness!

Krantz pulled on his new fringed buckskin jacket, identical to the one Colonel Custer always wore. He looked at himself in the mirror over his washstand and grimaced. His mother, back home in Boston, would have shuddered in horror at the sight; his father probably would have said Winston looked like a red-skinned savage himself. The garment certainly did nothing to enhance the outdoorsman image he had hoped to create. Even if no one else thought so, he’d hoped to make the damned buffalo they were about to go after think he looked threatening, if not downright dangerous. But the picture he presented—at least to his own eyes—was more that of an overstuffed deerskin with tassels.

“Blasted fringe!” he muttered as his sleeve tangled in his cartridge belt.

This was just the latest in a series of frustrations since he’d joined up with Custer’s 7th Cavalry. He was half glad Charlotte Buckland had run out on him before the wedding. Fort Leavenworth, with all its pretense of civilization, simply wasn’t his idea of the proper place to begin a happy marriage. The rough quarters, the heat, the constant threat of Indian attack… well, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it certainly hadn’t been what he’d found.

He’d never dream of bringing a wife here to endure such hardships. But many of the men had wives, children, sisters, even mothers living on the post. Mrs. Custer wasn’t in residence at present, but only because the 7th Cavalry was here on temporary duty. Still, the colonel swore that his Libbie might just pop in any day. He vowed that she loved every minute of army life and hated being left behind when her “Autie” rode out.

The “boy general” himself, as Custer had been called after his field promotion during the war, was Krantz’s second shock. The man was not made of the tall, muscular stuff one envisioned in connection with heroes. In fact, had it not been for George Custer’s manly swoop of mustache, those long golden locks might have made the officer look quite effeminate. Granted, he was a keen strategist when it came to fighting these bloody savages. His idea last year of mounting a campaign during the winter months, when the Indians were off their guard, had been a stroke of genius. But Custer’s interests were so unorthodox for a West Point man—writing poetry, taking part in amateur theatricals, holding mule races. Why, some of the men even whispered that he consorted with Gypsies! It all smacked of the bizarre to Krantz. And perhaps the man’s strangest quirk was the menagerie that always traveled in his company.

Krantz harrumphed loudly into his fist and reprimanded his own thoughts. “Not including Mrs. Custer, of course.”

Winston didn’t mind the dozen or so dogs—although he was sure some of them were full-blooded and still vicious wolves—or even the assorted raccoons, squirrels, and smaller furry vermin. It was that damned obnoxious pelican that got his goat. The thing was always following Krantz about, flapping its big wings and begging in its irritating, voiceless fashion at the mess.

Krantz was trying on his new broad-brimmed felt hunting hat when a voice outside his door announced, “Mail call, Major Krantz, sir.”

A sudden pang of nostalgia raced through him. He thought of home and the cool New England fall that would soon be descending upon his beloved Boston. The first letter from his mother must have arrived with all the latest news and gossip about family and friends. He could hardly wait to read her detailed account.

“That dear lady,” he murmured, thinking of his prim, gray-haired mother as he hurried to open the door for the mail orderly.

The soldier thrust one envelope into Krantz’s hand and said, “Colonel Custer says we’ll be mounting up in ten minutes, sir.”

“Thank you.” Krantz turned away, anxious to read his letter before joining the others.

A strong waft of verbena perfume pervaded the room. Odd! He’d never known his mother to wear scent. He glanced down at the evelope—a woman’s dainty handwriting, but certainly not Prudence Barclay Krantz’s clean, economical, no-nonsense script. He tore into it, most curious now.

Winston Krantz stopped reading for a moment to nod his head in agreement. Hadn’t he thought these same things only moments before? He must write to Jemima Buckland and put her mind and heart at ease.

A warning bugle sounded outside. He hurried back to the letter, anxious to read all that Charlotte’s mother had to say before it was time to leave for the hunt.

Krantz stopped to reread that sentence. He was smiling broadly—fairly preening. He hadn’t realized before what a keen judge of human nature Jemima Buckland was. Perhaps he should have spent more time gazing at the mother instead of the daughter.

He stared at the page for a long time, breathing in Jemima’s perfume and visualizing the golden hair that framed as pretty a face as her daughter’s. The added maturity was no detriment, he decided. He could even see her blue eyes. Funny, until this very moment he hadn’t realized that Jemima Buckland had blue eyes. Perhaps he’d taken more note of her than he’d thought.

A second, louder bugle call aroused him from his reverie, thrusting him back into the unwelcome reality of camp life and the buffalo hunt about to take place. Groaning slightly, he hoisted his gear and started out of his quarters. He turned back, smiling suddenly, and took the letter, slipping it inside his shirt. It would be nice to feel Jemima Buckland’s warm words close to him during the coming hours.

Fort Leavenworth was caught up in a flurry of activity. Horses, in their anxiety to be off on the chase, tramped the parade ground into an all-encompassing cloud of dust. Soldiers shouted back and forth to one another. Scouts lounged about, chewing tobacco and looking bored, waiting for more taxing sport. Custer’s ever-present pack of hounds added to the morning’s confusion, chasing this way and that and yapping excitedly. In the midst of it all, Col. George Armstrong Custer, his golden locks and red neck scarf blowing in the breeze, sat his favorite hunter, Custis Lee, issuing orders right and left. Only Custer’s pet pelican looked totally unconcerned, perched on the railing outside its master’s quarters where it could view the whole scene without fear of being trampled or getting nipped by an excited hound.

Krantz shook his head, wondering how this bunch of farmhands and city boys could ever be whipped into shape. The batch of raw recruits that had arrived at Fort Leavenworth just days ago knew nothing of army life. Many of them had never even been on a horse. But that’s what he was here for, to help train them. And Colonal Custer swore that the best way to keep a brand-new cavalryman in the saddle was to take him buffalo hunting.

“Damned if they don’t learn how to ride mighty quick when they see that herd thundering down on them!” he’d said, laughing.

“Here’s your mount for the day, sir,” said a young soldier to Krantz, handing over the reins of a horse as dark as Custer’s own Custis Lee.

“Soldier!” Winston Krantz barked at the private’s retreating back. “This isn’t my palomino. Bring me Old Ironsides.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I can’t do that. You see, Colonel Custer’s ordered the troops divided into two groups today as a sort of contest. Those riding with him will be mounted on dark horses like Jock here. The others will be on light ones. That way everybody will know who’s riding with whom, and we’ll know which side won when it comes time to count tongues.”

“Count tongues?”

But the private never got a chance to reply as Custer called through the chaos, “Major Krantz! Mount up! I’m ready to lead them out.”

Winston Krantz pulled himself up into the saddle and urged his horse through the mob until he was alongside Custer.

“I’m ready, sir,” he said, feeling anything but ready.

Custer looked at him with cool blue eyes and said, “By God, sir, you are
not
! Where’s the Hawken rifle I had issued to you?”

“I’m used to my old Kentucky. It got me through the war without so much as a scratch.”

“That might have been fine for Johnny Rebs, but not for buffalo. Myself, I prefer to ride in close and count my coup with a pistol. But that’s not for someone new at this game. You’ll want the best you can get. The new Hawken’s shorter barrel and larger bore can drop one of those great furry beasts at two hundred yards. And believe me, you won’t want to get much closer once you see the size of them. Besides, if those ragged hunks of cloud off to the west turn into a prairie storm, a percussion rifle’s going to be a lot more use to you than an old Kentucky flintlock. Go get the Hawken, Major Krantz.”

With a huff of annoyance, Winston climbed down from his horse and headed back for the new rifle. He’d never been much of a hunter, and the thought of going out on a strange horse with an unfamiliar weapon was sorely trying. But an order was an order, and Custer was his superior.

Moments later, Winston Krantz was back in the saddle, Hawken in hand. Colonel Custer gave the signal and the entire troop headed out at a smart clip. Even Krantz couldn’t deny a certain feeling of exhilaration now that they were on their way.

The troop hadn’t ridden many miles before they came over a small rise; suddenly, the brown-and-tan range turned black. Before them stretched a herd of buffalo, a sea of dark, dusty shapes, their great humps like waves moving restlessly all the way to the horizon.

“Hellfire and damnation!” Winston Krantz cried. “I never saw anything like it!”

“Quiet!” Custer cautioned in a harsh whisper. He passed the same word back through the ranks, then motioned for his men to follow.

“They don’t even seem to see us,” Krantz observed in a monotone.

“They won’t spook as long as we stay downwind. Buffalo are stupid beasts. I’ve shot a dozen or more in a small group while the others just grazed on, watching their mates fall dead around them. As long as they don’t pick up our scent, they won’t budge from their feeding.”

When Custer had his men in position, halved into two troops by horse color, he gave the signal to fire. The great, hulking beasts dropped like flies—a shot, a bellow, a thud, then a cloud of dust and it was over. To Winston Krantz, it seemed almost too easy to be sport. But the roar of his rifle, the smell of blood, and the confidence brought on by man’s superiority to beast soon warmed him to the hunt.

Suddenly Custer yelled, “Okay, boys, let’s go get ’em!”

Having given the raw recruits and Winston Krantz their chance, Custer and his veteran buffalo hunters whipped out their pistols and galloped at breakneck speed into the midst of the herd. The earth shook as the buffalo herd stampeded. Krantz watched, amazed, as Custer and his men rode close enough to reach out and touch the charging beasts, firing at deadly point-blank range. Custer himself dropped three… four, and was riding down a fifth large bull. Krantz watched, transfixed by the man’s daring.

Custer was almost up close enough now to put a bullet in the animal’s brain. He gave a war whoop and took aim with his revolver. But the next moment, the buffalo veered directly into Custis Lee’s path. The horse reared, and Custer’s pistol—cocked and ready for the kill—exploded, sending a bullet through his mount’s head. Winston Krantz felt his breath stop for an instant as the dying horse pitched and Colonel Custer flew through the air. Hitting the hard-packed earth with a thud, he sprang immediately to his feet, gun still in hand. He came up eye to eye with the startled bull buffalo. Only a few feet separated man from beast.

Except for the thunder of the retreating herd, silence reigned. Then the bull gave a low, dangerous-sounding snort. Custer stood his ground but held his fire. Krantz wondered if the man was paralyzed with fear or simply knocked senseless from his fall. The buffalo pawed the earth and seemed about ready to charge his former pursuer. Then suddenly the huge beast swung away and galloped off after the rest of the herd. A great cheer went up from the ranks. Custer let the noble animal depart without firing a shot, then ambled back toward the others.