No Other Man (16 page)

"You're Sioux—and with the cavalry?"

"My
dear Lady Douglas, at times the cavalry seems to be peopled with more Indians
than the plains themselves. I am with the cavalry, yes."

"But
no, he doesn't go shooting his own people," Hawk interjected for him.
"Sloan is a scout and liaison."

"How
interesting. But don't your own people try to shoot at you upon occasion?"

He
shook his head. ' 'Not so far. When I speak, they may not like what I have to
say. But they know that the words they hear from me are true. It's my job to
battle graft and corruption."

"And the Crows, now and then. Not to mention old
friends."

"I'm cut to the quick, Hawk. Now, he's the dangerous
one," Sloan said, indicating Hawk. "Ready to go to battle over
something like an eagle feather."

"We were four years old at the time," Hawk said
dryly.

"What he wants, he goes after."

"I believe that could be said for you as well."

"Ah, but the poor lady is not my wife, therefore she
must be warned against you."

"I think she stands duly warned."

"Yes, well"—Sloan lowered his eyes as his lips
twitched in a small smile—"again, we were all quite delighted to hear
about the marriage."

He was amused, Skylar thought. She wondered why. What had
Hawk said to him?

"And again, sir, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.
You came to pay your last respects to Lord Douglas?"

"Indeed, as well as to speak with the new Lord Douglas,"
Sloan Trelawny said, glancing at Hawk. Then, changing the subject, he
continued. "It's wild country you've come to, Lady Douglas. But among the
most beautiful in all the world, I'll warrant."

"Yes, it's very lovely here," she said.

The other three men gathered around them. "Lady Douglas,
may I introduce to you Sergeant Walker, Private Hamilton, and Private
Stowe." She greeted each man, relieved to see that none of the soldiers
were the men who had burst in on the lodge two nights before. Apparently they
had been on some kind of mission, looking for Hawk. And just as apparently, the
way that they had found him had caused them to delay their mission. But now
these officers were here, at his house.

She realized why Sloan Trelawny appeared to be so very
amused.

Every man in the army must have heard why there had been such
a delay in contacting Hawk the other night. The thought brought a rush of color
to her cheeks, which she determined to subdue as she pondered the appearance of
these men. This was far more than a courtesy call on behalf of the departed
Lord Douglas. They definitely wanted Hawk. For what? she wondered.

"Gentlemen, shall I see you out?" Hawk said.
"My dear, I'm sure you're anxious to retire after traveling so long and
hard. And taking such a curious route to your destination." With his hand
on her elbow, he led her from the parlor and saw her to the foot of the stairs.
"You can find the way?" he inquired.

"I can," she told him.

"Lady Douglas!" Sloan Trelawny said, tipping his
hat to her. A bright light of amusement played in his eyes when they met hers.
She determined he was as much of a scoundrel as her husband, and that still,
he would be a daring and fierce defender of anyone within his fold.

His men politely bid her goodnight. She smiled pleasantly
and started up the stairs. She listened as the men filed out of the front
entryway. Hawk was going out with them, she realized.

She didn't go immediately to the master bedroom but hesitated
on the landing. When she was certain that Hawk had gone outside, she set out to
explore the rooms upstairs. She opened the door opposite her own. She was disappointed
to discover a bedroom, probably a guest room, for though it was handsomely
furnished, it seemed devoid of personality. She wanted to find the late Lord
Douglas's office and try to discover if there were any papers that might have
been returned to the house explaining just what her rights were, not as his
widow, but as his son's wife.

She tried a second room. Another bedroom. In the dim
moonlight she could make out several framed pictures on the mantle. She walked
over to take a closer look at them. One was of a slim, handsome man, wearing a
kilt and standing in front of a stone wall on which hung a coat-of- arms. The
picture beside it was a small painting of a very pretty, light-haired woman.
Skylar studied the two and thought that she saw the late Lord David Douglas in
both of the faces. The coat-of-arms on the wall was probably that of the
Douglas family.

She opened the wardrobe in the room, but it was empty.
Pensively, she left the room, closing the door behind her.

She opened another door, then hesitated. She'd come into a
library. Bookcases lined three walls. In the moonlight she could make out books
on every subject imaginable. Military manuals, almanacs, novels, books on
animal husbandry, herbs, sheep, cattle, horses. More military manuals.

As she walked along the shelves, she suddenly froze, hearing
a door close nearby. She turned around, realizing the library led into a
bedroom. The door was wide open. When she turned, she saw that the girl,
Sandra, had come into the room. She hummed as she turned down the sheets on a
large, quilt-covered bed there. The girl ran her fingers over the pillow and
bedding with a slow, sensual flair.

Skylar backed away, feeling as if she were intruding. She
heard the door from the hallway to the bedroom open and close again and she
jumped. Hawk came into the room. He approached the girl, speaking a strange
language.

Sioux? Skylar couldn't understand a word of it. Apparently
the girl did, because she gripped his hands, speaking earnestly to him in
return. Hawk freed his hands and smoothed back her long black hair. His words,
unintelligible to Skylar, nonetheless sounded gentle.

The girl spoke in an anguished tone. Hawk took her face
between his hands. He bent down and kissed her forehead. Feeling ill, Skylar
silently backed out of the library into the hallway. She strode quickly to the
master bedroom, slipped inside, and bolted the door behind her.

She leaned against the door, wondering at the tumult of
emotions that raced through her. She should be glad. He wouldn't be disturbing
her tonight. He kept his own suite of rooms in this house. This was the master
bedroom, but not the one he chose to use.

The bathtub was gone, she realized. As was the towel rack.
Her trunk was gone as well. Frowning, she moved across the room, opening the
wardrobe and the drawers within it. Someone had unpacked her belongings. Hung
her dresses, skirts, blouses. Folded her undergarments, set them into the
drawers. She turned around. Her brushes, combs, perfumes and toiletries were
all arranged on the dressing table.

Had Sandra done this while she had been downstairs? She was
startled by her sudden longing to slap the girl. She didn't want Sandra
touching her belongings.

She expelled a long breath, hating both Hawk and the girl.
Then she plucked up her hairbrush, using it vigorously, taking her anger out on
her long blond tresses, burnishing them to a glow.

This was the master bedroom, but the master did not sleep
here. Good. It was all very good for her. She had so much to work out. How to
carry our her own desperate plans now that he stood in the way.

She set her brush down and threw open the wardrobe again. She
found a nightgown. Soft white flannel with embroidery at the collar and cuffs.
She slipped into it, thinking,
Tell him the truth?
Ask his mercy? Never. He is more ruthless than any heathen on the warpath! He's
still convinced I did ill to his father. Imagine trying to explain ...

No. And yet, she had to accomplish what she had set out to
do. Oh, God, she had to!

Everything had seemed so simple at the beginning.

And now ...

Now she was married to a man who despised her. One still
convinced that she was a scheming adventuress at the very best. One she could
only fight in return. One she would have to learn to get around somehow.

She pulled down the covers to her own bed and lay down. She
watched the fire, then closed her eyes, but she could not sleep. Her thoughts
kept running rampant in her head.

With a deep, exasperated sigh, she rose at last, thinking
that since she had just seen Hawk upstairs and the rest of his household was
surely asleep, she might pay her own last respects to Lord Douglas in the
parlor. Despite everything that had happened and the way he had tricked her,
she still missed him. His death hadn't been the painful shock for her that it
had been for Hawk. But she still had a few prayers of her own to say for the
man who had apparently been even more of an admirable individual than she had
ever known.

Maybe some answers would come to her again, with him near.

She slipped out of her room, down the stairs, and into the
parlor. She touched the lid of the coffin tenderly. "Well, Lord Douglas,
just what do I do now?" she whispered fervently.

"You could begin by telling me exactly what went on
between you and my father!"

She spun around, gasping at the sound of the deep, masculine
voice behind her.

Hawk was no longer upstairs. His frock coat shed, his dark
hair no longer neatly queued but falling free to his shoulders, he stood in the
shadows by the mantle. He set down the brandy snifter he'd been holding and
crossed his arms over his chest. "Do go on, Lady Douglas," he said.
"I am so eager to hear this story."

Ten

She simply wasn't going to let him ridicule
her, command her, demand his rights, sleep with other women, and emerge to
threaten her anew. Skylar crossed her arms over her chest, facing him.

"I've
nothing to tell you," she informed him regally.

"Nothing?" he queried, a dark brow arched high.

"Nothing.
You seem to know everything already. I wouldn't dream of trying to correct the
assumptions within that arrogant head of yours. If I've disturbed you again, I
do apologize. It was not my intention. So if you'll just excuse me . . ."

She
started to move past him, but he caught her wrist. "I don't excuse you.
You came down to be by Father's coffin. Saying your prayers? For his soul—or
your own?''

"Perhaps
I'm praying that a large pit will open up in the earth and you'll fall into
it," she replied sweetly.

He smiled. "That is a given."

She
narrowed her eyes, staring at him hard. "Perhaps I pray that Colonel
Custer will lead an expedition against you, catch you in your war paint
taunting some other hapless victim, and riddle you with bullets!"

To her
amazement, he started to laugh. "Sorry, my dear.

Old Curly may have learned Indian country, but he couldn't
trail me even if he had a map in front of him. But do go on. This conversation
might become enlightening. For what else do you pray? And just what do your
prayers have to do with your relationship with my father? What was that
relationship?"

She wrenched her arm free. "I saw an elderly man. Being
a mystic, I determined that he was more ill than he would let on, that I should
marry him as quickly as possible. I have such powers of persuasion that I not
only convinced him to marry me, I also caused his heart to stop by the sheer
seduction of my smile. But I'm not a very good mystic, am I? I was unaware that
Lord Douglas had a bitter, cruel half-breed son who liked to dress up in war
paint and and attack stagecoaches. That is your assumption, isn't it?"

"Have you something else to give me in its stead?"
he asked blandly.

"I've told you, I'll give you nothing!" she
promised vehemently. She took another chance at getting past him.

He didn't stop her this time, and she raced up the stairway
to her room.

Still standing in the parlor, Hawk heard
her slam the bedroom doors closed. He was certain that she had thrown the bolt.

He shut his eyes.

Why
wouldn't she talk to him?

Worse. Why did it seem that she had gotten so deeply into his
blood?

Why did it seem, even now, that his body was wired, hot and
burning, that his soul and mind were torn. That he wanted to stay away from
her, that he wanted ...

The soft flannel gown had hugged her body. The fire had given
it the effect of light and shadow as it fell over her form, highlighting curves
and movement. Curves he had touched. Movement he knew.

Damn her. He wouldn't be so swayed.

Damn her.

He would.

She was here as his wife.

Skylar furiously wrenched the covers from
the bed and was about to slide into it when the bedroom door suddenly burst
open with a violent slam. Hawk stood there. She stared blankly from him to the
doors and realized that his force had easily broken the flimsy bolt. He had
snapped the wood that had surrounded the metal bolt.

His eyes on her, he stepped into the room, drawing the doors
closed behind him.

"Can't sleep, Lady Douglas?" he inquired politely.

"I think that I will manage just fine now," she
informed him.

"We'll see to it. I hadn't meant to be remiss. Were you
ready for bed, you needed only say so."

He moved about the room, methodically blowing out candles,
turning down the flames on the gas lamps. Only the firelight still glowed when
he finished. He sat at the foot of the bed then, pulling off his boots. He
stood, pulling his shirt over his head. Skylar remained dead still herself,
standing as if frozen, just watching him.

"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded
huskily.

"Undressing."

He unbuckled his belt. His pants fell to the floor with a
soft thud and he stepped from them, kicking them aside. For a moment he stood
facing her. She couldn't keep her eyes from sliding over his body, nor, to her
own dismay, could she keep from feeling that there was something strangely
superb about him. He stood so very tall, broad shouldered, with his flesh
burnished copper by the very pale firelight that danced so lightly upon the
night time shadows. A fierce wave of sensation seemed to encompass her, one she
fought to throw off. She crossed her arms firmly over her chest, demanding,
"Why?"