No Other Man (2 page)

Startled by the sound of water being poured, she looked
quickly back at the Indian. He had taken a huge, steaming pot from atop the
hearth and dumped the water from it into the hip tub. Her jaw dropped as she
realized he was stripping down from his scant clothing to nothing at all. He
stood naked, his back to her. Still stunned, inhaling a ragged breath, she
seemed unable to do anything other than stare, her heart hammering fiercely. He
was a very tall man, more imposing than she had realized in all her terrified
struggling. Every inch of that height was savagely muscled. His shoulders were
very broad, his back was long, his buttocks were as hard-muscled as his
sturdy, well-shaped legs. Even from the back, his arm muscles rippled.

She quickly averted her eyes, looking toward the cabin door
as he stepped into the tub.

He lay back comfortably.

And sighed.

She stared at him at first, incredulous. She had read accounts
of Indiah captivity. Accounts of Sioux raids, encounters in which survivors
were sometimes shot even as they assumed they were being taken hostage,
encounters in which men, women, and children were taken for slave labor and
used brutally.

But a savage warrior opting first for a
bath did not quite seem to fit well with any previous account she had come
across.

She couldn't see much more than the power of his shoulders
and the sleek wet darkness of his hair as he sat in the tub, for he faced away
from her. He seemed to be scrubbing himself furiously, removing his war paint.
Why?

Would he paint himself differently to murder her? One set of
colors for the capture, another for the kill?

Perhaps she was to be some kind of ritual sacrifice. Killed
in a very specific way.

Oh, God!

She leaped up, lifting her bound hands before her, ready to
throw herself against the door. What did she do once she was free with her
bound hands? What if animals attacked in the night?

How would that be different from the fate that awaited her
here?
she
shrieked silently to herself.

But again, it didn't matter. He may have seemed to be at ease
bathing in the tub. But he could not have been so very relaxed, for he was out
of the water even as she hurled her weight against the door.

"I will not stay here. You cannot keep me here!"
she cried. He flung her around. She stared into his eyes, afraid to let her
eyes wander down the length of him. "You think that you can keep me
captive watching you mimic a murdered settler in his bath? I am the one who
needs to bathe; I am the one who needs to wash away your touch! I—" She
broke off. His wet hands were upon her arm, wrenching her back with such a
force that she heard the delicate silk and lace of her black mourning gown rip
and tear. She screamed, trying ridiculously to free herself from his hold. Both
hands upon her shoulders, he shook her firmly. She gasped for breath and stared
into his strange green eyes once again, and for the first time, saw his face.
Really saw his face.

She couldn't ascertain his age, but she thought he was
somewhere near thirty—not a very young man, certainly not an old one—one
indisputably in the very prime of life and at the height of his strength and
power. His skull was ruggedly sculpted, his jaw square, his cheekbones high,
his forehead broad. His unusual eyes were large and bright against the bronze
of his flesh, while his brows, as well as his hair, were blue black, well and
cleanly arched. Were it not so fierce and menacing, it would have been a
fascinating face. Compelling, intimidating, masculine, hard but so cleanly
lined that among any race it would be considered handsome. His nose was long
and straight, his mouth full, his lips oddly curled in a mocking smile that
sent chills racing throughout her body once again. Skylar was quite certain
then that many a beautiful young Indian maid had worn her heart upon her sleeve
for this ruthless warrior, and yet there was something in the mocking eyes that
made her wonder if there wasn't something dark and deadly in this savage's past
that might make him deal as callously with one of his own as he dealt with her.

No. He'd not slay an Indian woman when he had finished with
his taunting of her....

Taunting. He was naked now. Buck naked. Dripping upon her as
he held her.

"Savage son of satan! Bastard!" she shrieked. Hands
tied, shoulders caught in his iron grip, she fought the only way she could,
trying with all her remaining strength and energy to kick him. She caught a
shin, yet didn't draw so much as a grimace from him. A second passed while they
stared at one another. Then she shrieked in real terror, for he plucked her up again
and threw her down upon the bunk. As she struggled to inch away from him and
rise, her fear began to escalate in leaps and bounds, for he caught her by one
foot, and despite her thrashing and struggling, removed the black lady's boot
from it.

"God, no. No!" she breathed, trying wildly to kick
and fight, again to no avail. Both boots were stripped from her and thrown to
the floor. She tried to slam her bound hands against him. Then she gasped,
inhaling on a half sob when he plucked a wicked-looking bowie knife from the
floor beneath the bed, bringing it to her chest, straight against her heart.
She stared at him in silence then, wondering when the blade would find its way
into her body, wondering what the pain would be like, how hard it would be to
die. Oh, God ...

"They'll kill you!" she lashed out, determined not
to cry even as tears burned against her eyes. ' "The whites will come for
you and slice you to ribbons, they'll disembowel you, they'll cut off your
head—scalp you, oh, yes, they'll scalp away all that black hair of yours and
leave you bleeding until you die!"

She thought his lips twitched, but his eyes were unyielding.
He moved his hand slightly, and she closed her eyes and screamed, waiting for
the knife to pierce her flesh.

Instead...

She heard the methodical ripping of material.

Her eyes flew open, and she realized that he had rent the
fabric of her mourning gown from throat to hem.

"No!" she cried out, shaking, trying to remind
herself that it was better to bear torn clothing than torn flesh. She tried to
use her bound hands as a weapon against him, only to find herself flung face
down into the covers as he chopped away heedlessly at all the fabric covering
her. While she shrieked and struggled, gasping for breath against the bed, he ripped
and tore away the black silk and lace of her gown, chemise, and top petticoat
and then the white cotton and linen of her corset and pantaloons, even the soft
pink-ribboned bows of her garters. With one hand he flipped her again so that
she faced him, naked in the tattered remnants of her elegant apparel, and
stared down at her.

"They'll cut out your heart!" she cried to him,
still fighting tears and renewed terror. "Then you know what they'll do?
They'll cut off your big, wretched, savage sex and feed it to the hogs, you
bastard!" She was going to start crying or lose her mind to sheer
hysteria. "I'll do it, I'll do it myself. Just you wait until I get my
hands on a knife. You'll be so sorry, you'll—"

She shrieked because he was up and lifting her. She didn't
know now in what form death would come.

And she was heartily startled when she found herself dropped
into the tub.

He meant to drown her.

He was going for her hair again; he was going to use it to
force her under. . ..

But he merely lifted her hair from her back, letting it fall
down the outside of the tub. He turned back to the hearth for the cauldron of
water.

He was going to scald her to death.

But he poured the water so that it warmed the bath without
burning her. He replaced the cauldron, throwing a bar of soap her way.

"You want me clean when you kill me?" she snapped
out bitterly. "No—" she began to gasp again, for he had hunkered down
by the tub. The knife was suddenly glittering in his hands again.

She shrieked again, closing her eyes.

But he merely used the knife to snap the rawhide binding her
wrists. In panic, Skylar instantly took the soap and started to throw it at
him. She cried out as he caught her wrist. His eyes were on hers then with such
warning that she went dead still except for the furious pounding of her heart.
"Fine!" she said, trying to keep her lips from trembling. "I'll
scrub myself clean for that moment when you decide to murder me." She
stared into his eyes. Crouched down beside her, he was more terrifying than
ever. His own nakedness seemed not to bother him in the least, while she was
ever more tormented by the nudity he had enforced upon them both. He was
terrifyingly sexual, so perfectly honed and physically powerful, not to mention
that he was surely exceptionally endowed, no matter the color of his flesh.

He let go of her and stood again, turning from her to move
about the hearth. For the moment, she clutched the soap, suddenly glad of it.
Time. She was buying time here. She furiously washed the trail dust and dirt
and grime from her face. She scrubbed her arms, legs, torso, desperately
thinking about how to escape.

She realized then that she smelled coffee.

The scent of it tantalizing, delicious ...

There were no more sounds coming from the hearth. She turned
to discover that he had decked himself out in a white man's long smoking jacket
and that he was leaning against the wooden mantle over the hearth, his arms
crossed over his chest, watching her, his green eyes as hard as emerald chips
and giving away nothing of his thoughts.

Then she realized that he was actually studying her. A
strange warmth seared through her. The oddest sensation of panic seized her, a
panic she couldn't even understand because it wasn't simply a fear of him.
Irrationally, she sprang from the tub, racing wet and naked for the door.

Naturally, she didn't make it. When he seized hold of her
this time, lifting her into his arms, she half sobbed and half laughed,
slamming her fists against him. The robe he wore came open. She was aware of
his flesh, the warmth of it, the sleekness of it, the muscled strength that lay
beneath it. He smelled of soap from the bath, and to her horror, though she
was afraid, she was not as
repelled
as she
should have been.

He laid her back down on the cot. He was entangled with her
hair, she with his robe. Whether or not he'd intended to, he fell upon her and
she became more vividly aware of the structure of his anatomy and all the
strengths and hungers within it. An awful breathlessness seized her, a fear, a
fire. Desperate, she twisted and writhed, struggling to free herself from his
weight. He caught her wrists, pinning them above her head, then cast a leg over
the length of her, holding her immobile no matter what energy she set into her
writhing and struggle. She was absolutely powerless against him and swiftly
growing exhausted from her efforts to free herself. She spoke, staring at him
with all the venom and courage she could muster.

"I will kill you, you know, you overgrown savage."

His
green eyes narrowed. His fierce, rugged, oddly handsome features were very
taut. He was furious with her. He might not understand her words, but he knew
she was threatening him, she thought.

"Yes! I'll kill you!"

It was
actually amazing that he hadn't already done her some irreversible harm. He
stared at her still. With those green eyes.

A
shudder swept through her. Green eyes. She felt a strange sense of familiarity
as she looked into them. As if she'd seen them before.

There was something about them ...

Yes! They were dangerous, menacing.

Deadly.

Again,
she felt trembling and fire sweeping within her. She had to keep threatening
and fighting. Until she died, she reminded herself. There was nothing else for
her to do.

"I'll
gouge your eyes out. I'll tear you to shreds, cut off your limbs one by one,
beat every single oversize muscle into pure pulp. Skin you alive, feed your
hands to the dogs, chop off your pen—"

She
never finished her threat, for her captor decided to break his silence at last.

"Madam,
make one more threat against my anatomy," he said suddenly in perfect
English, "and I will feel forced to make good use of it before it exists
no more!"

Completely
stunned, Skylar lay dead still at last. "What?" she gasped,
disbelieving.

"You
heard me—and I do believe that I made myself perfectly clear."

He spoke English. Oh, God, he
understood
English.

She burned. She shook. She was still terrified.

But she was furious, too.

' 'You—you—despicable—''

"Take care!" he warned.

"Bastard!"
she cried out heedlessly. "You bastard!" she repeated. ' 'You speak
English damned well, you—who the hell are you?"

Those strangely familiar eyes burned into her relentlessly.
Undaunted. Merciless.

Deadly.

And he spoke again.

His voice deep, rich.

Its tone . . .

As deadly as the green fire in his eyes.

"The
question, madam," he hissed furiously,
"is just who the bloody hell are you?"

Two

She was going to quit shaking. She was not going to die a
coward.

Please, God, she was not going to do so....

"What
difference does it make to you who I am!" Skylar cried, pressing her hands
against him and finding him still immovable.

Courage! she reminded herself.

That lacking, bravado would do.

"You've
murdered the stagecoach driver and abducted me; you'll surely hang no matter
how good your English may be!" Perhaps threats were the wrong tack to take
at this time. If he understood her, she could attempt to reason with him.