Savage Heat (18 page)

It was Martay’s turn to moan.

An incredible wave of heat surged through her chilled, trembling body as his hands, strong and sure, caressed her thighs; thighs now bared to the cool night air. And to his warm, stroking fingers. Dizzy, heart pounding, Martay winced, then shuddered, when Night Sun pushed his knee, no longer encumbered by the confines of her dress, between her legs and, gripping her hips, guided her pelvis to meet his rock-hard thigh.

That muscular buckskin-covered thigh at once began an intimate rhythmic rubbing, pressing the satin of her underwear against sensitive female flesh that rapidly heated to such bold, breathtaking intimacy. Martay’s arms hung limply at her sides, but it was all she could do to keep from wrapping them around his neck.

Night Sun’s lips abruptly left hers. He lifted his head and stared down at her, and she had no choice but to grip his fringed shirtfront lest she fall. For what seemed a lifetime to the bewildered Martay, Night Sun kept her as she was, his hands clutching her naked thighs, lifting her, lowering her, moving her back, moving her forward, forcing her to ride his ungiving leg.

Their gazes were locked. Martay’s breath was soft, shallow. Night Sun’s was loud, heavy. And his mouth, that cruel, beautiful mouth, was slowly descending to hers again. Martay, helplessly surrendering to his searing, savage kiss, was jolted back to harsh reality when Night Sun abruptly ended the blistering kiss and pushed her so callously from him, her head rocked on her shoulders.

In confusion she stared at him. That confusion turned to terror and dread as he smiled coldly and roughly flung her down on the grass. Landing on her stomach, Martay frantically rolled over and saw, to her horror, that the unfeeling Lakota had removed his shirt; the long, slashing scar gleamed deathly white against his bare, dark chest.

His hands were at the leather-laced fly of his tight buckskin trousers.

“No,” Martay begged, full comprehension of his intent finally washing over her. Rising to her knees, tears springing to her frightened eyes, she pleaded, “Please … please don’t do this.”

He stood just above, tall and dangerous and determined. Desperate, Martay crawled closer, threw her shaking arms around a long, muscled leg and bowed her head. “Please,” she sobbed heartbrokenly, “please.”

The muscles tightened tensely in his leg. His fingers paused on the leather laces. He looked down at her. Golden head bent, her cheek was pressing against his upper thigh, her arms were wrapped tightly around his leg, fingers tenaciously clinging. She was sobbing loudly, her slender shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

His fury, his rage, his passion, fled.

Teeth clenching so tightly, his jaws ached, Night Sun laced up his buckskins. Then, drawing a deep, slow breath, he laid a cradling hand atop her bowed head. His touch made her jump and cry all the louder. He sighed wearily, bent, and put his hands on her shoulders.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Martay,” he said softly.

“No!” she wailed, and clung tightly to his leg, on the verge of hysterics, past reasoning.

He stood there in the moonlight while she wept and screamed and trembled. When her wracking sobs had turned to tired little hiccoughs, he eased her arms from his leg and crouched down before her.

Her eyes were swollen and puffy, her nose was running, her lips were trembling, her teeth chattering. The sight of her, so pitiful, so distraught, made his heart hurt.

“Oh, God,” he ground out. Immediately he sat flat down on the grass and pulled her onto his lap, murmuring, “Shhh, shhh,” when she tried weakly to resist. Finally realizing he was not going to hurt her, Martay, more tired than she could ever remember being, relaxed against him, sighing gratefully. Night Sun quickly pulled a clean handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped the tears from her sad, beautiful eyes and hot, fevered cheeks. Then he brought the handkerchief to her nose and gently commanded, “Blow.” She did.

And she didn’t fight it when he wrapped his arms around her, cradling her close to his chest, warming her chilled, slender frame with the heat of his body. Curling against him, Martay instinctively put a flattened palm on his stomach and laid her cheek against his bare warm chest. Lulled by the sure, steady heartbeat under her ear, she soon fell asleep.

Night Sun felt the muscles in his neck tighten.

Martay’s long golden hair spilled over his supporting arm, tickling him, enchanting him. Her pale, slender fingers, gripping him, were flexing and unflexing on his naked stomach. Her parted lips were against his throat, her breath sweet and moist. Her full, soft breasts, barely covered by the soiled white silk, pressed intimately against his bare, heaving chest, and her firm, rounded bottom was too close, much too close, to his stirring groin.

Night Sun drew a shallow breath and let his long fingers sweep fleetingly over the shimmering white silk draping the youthful curve of her left breast. He closed his eyes.

This beautiful girl—the most temptingly exquisite creature he had ever seen—had fallen asleep in the arms of a man who had, only moments ago, meant to rape her.

He forced himself to move his hand from her soft breast.

He opened his eyes and smiled at the bitter irony. If this sleeping girl knew he wanted her far more now than when he’d forcefully kissed her, she’d know it wasn’t safe to be sleeping in his arms. Before, his passion had been pure rage; now it was growing desire. No longer did he want to hurt her; he wanted to make love to her.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the girl, who could not hear him as his attention was drawn to faint red marks on Martay’s graceful ivory throat. Teeth marks. His teeth marks. His black eyes clouded with pain and frustration and a pulse throbbed in his tight throat. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, “sorry I ever took you from that party.”

16

G
ently, Night Sun laid Martay on a soft bed of grass, taking care not to wake her. He pulled a blanket from his gear and covered her against the chill night air, then drew his fringed shirt back on and stretched out beside her. Close, but not touching.

He lay there on his back, head cradled in his folded arms, staring broodingly up at the summer moon, his thoughts troubled.

Taking her had been a mistake. Already he regretted he’d done it. Regretted she was lying here beside him. Regretted he could turn his head and see her beautiful angelic-looking face.

Forcing himself not to turn his head, not to look at her, he rolled to a sitting position, clasped his hands around his knees, and rested his chin on a muscular forearm.

Why hadn’t her father come? The general must surely have gotten the message; no one was more reliable than Little Coyote. He had chosen Little Coyote to deliver the all-important letter because the small, quick brave could be depended on to carry out orders without question. Little Coyote had vowed he’d see to it the message got to General Kidd at the Emersons’ Larimer street residence.

So then why?

Several detachments of soldiers had ridden very near to the rock-concealed shack in the five days he’d kept her there, but the general had not led them. Was he too big a coward to come, even to save the life of his daughter? Or could something have happened to Little Coyote? That question couldn’t be answered for months. The messenger was to ride directly from Denver south to Running Elk’s camp and not return home until the spring.

Night sun pondered for a long time before finally lying back down.

There was nothing to do but carry out the second part of his plan. He had warned the general in the letter that if he did not come for his daughter within twenty-four hours, she would be taken from Colorado north to the Dakota Territory.

Night Sun ran a hand over his face.

He had not planned to take her anywhere, so sure had he been that her father would come for her. Now there was no choice. He couldn’t back down. He’d have to take her with him, and that could only bring more trouble for his beleaguered people. An American general’s daughter held hostage in a Lakota Sioux camp could bring down the entire U.S. Army on their heads.

Night Sun thoughtfully closed his eyes. And, exhausted from the long hours in the saddle, soon fell asleep.

It was midmorning when Martay awakened feeling uncomfortably warm. Her lips were dry and she licked them, opening her eyes to bright, pervading sunlight. She turned her head and saw the sleeping Night Sun lying beside her, face turned in her direction. Immediately the recollection of last night’s brutal embrace came back and Martay shuddered and stifled a scream. Her first impulse was to flee.

Silently she stared at the sleeping Lakota through narrowed green eyes, not fooled by the peaceful, handsome face. In sleep he appeared placid, harmless; Martay knew differently. He was a dangerous primitive savage and she had to get away from him.

Very carefully, Martay lifted her head. Night Sun didn’t move. Relieved, she rolled her shoulders up and immediately felt the pulling of her hair. Frowning, she looked down to see long, bronzed fingers grasping the tangled golden ends. Taking great pains not to disturb him, Martay gingerly turned over onto her side. Then, very carefully, very slowly, she went about bending back those restraining fingers, one by one, holding her breath as she did so. With a patience that was totally foreign to her, Martay worked at freeing the blond hair from his clasping hand, silently praying he would continue sleeping, her concentration so intense, she looked nowhere but directly at the task before her. After long pulse-pounding minutes, the last lock of hair was freed; she was elated.

Ready to spring to her feet, she cast a hurried glance at the Lakota’s face.

And saw a pair of lazy-lidded black eyes calmly watching her. A shiver raced through her, though the sun was hot on her face and perspiration beaded her throat. Her hopes of escape dashed, she waited tensely for him to speak. Or to reach for her and finish what he’d started last night.

His eyes grew hard for a moment, then softened. He said, “Good morning, Martay.”

She didn’t answer. She forced her eyes from his, her fear escalating, her face growing rosy from the vivid recollection of his heated lips on her throat. From beneath lowered lashes, she nervously observed him.

“We’re not going to ride today,” said Night Sun, casually, as though last night’s heart-stopping drama had never happened. Pushing his fringed shirt up to rub his hard, flat abdomen unselfconsciously, he added, “If you like, you may sleep longer.”

Martay licked her dry lips, despising the cool, detached Lakota with a vengeance. His blatant sexuality offended her almost as much as his heartless cruelty. He exuded an aura of sexual menace so powerful, she was repelled, yet, perversely, at the same time drawn by it. He made the simple gesture of rubbing his stomach somehow sexual, and try as she might, she couldn’t keep her eyes off those long dark fingers gliding lewdly over his bared brown belly.

“No. No, I’m not …” She cleared her throat and jerked her gaze up to his face. “Why aren’t we riding?”

He yawned and stretched like a lazy cat. “It’s not safe. These foothills are full of troopers. We’ll wait until the sun sets, then ride tonight.”

Knowing it was useless to argue, Martay nodded. “And what will we do all day? Hide?”

Abruptly he sat up and leaned uncomfortably close, propping a stiff arm behind her back. Instinctively she leaned away, but couldn’t keep from staring at his mouth as he said, “No need to hide, unless I hear someone coming.” His black, lazy gaze dropped to her soiled silk dress. “It’ll be a good chance for you to clean up.”

“I told you I have no intention of …” Her words trailed off as she looked into eyes of glittering flint.

“You’ll bathe today, Martay,” he said commandingly, “and while you’re in the water, I’ll wash your dress.”

Forgetting herself for a moment, Martay sniffed haughtily, “That’s all you Indians know about fine things. This dress is pure Chinese silk and must be very carefully laundered with mild … with …” Those black eyes were impaling her, daring her to continue. “Oh, very well.”

Night Sun agilely sprang to his feet. “I’ll take your underthings too,” he said matter-of-factly.

Martay rose beside him, hands going to her hips. “You’ll do no such thing! I am not about to …”

“Then you’ll kindly wash them yourself before, or after, your bath. And wash your hair. It’s a sight, and I’m tired of looking at it.”

“Who do you think you are that you can order me about?” she snapped. Martay was the one used to ordering others about.

“For you, Martay, I’m everything.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Everything,” he repeated. “Your protector, your guide, your provider.”

“My warden,” she responded scornfully.

“That too,” he said, with no trace of apology. “Now, take that bath, before I’m forced to give you one.”

Knowing the strong, lean Lakota meant exactly what he said, Martay turned away and looked out at the noisily running brook, hunting a part of it that offered some privacy. She saw the spot not twenty yards from where they stood. Directly in the middle of the gurgling stream, the waters were swirling and splashing around a large, jutting spire of brown sandstone rock.

Pointing, she said, “You see that big upthrust of rock. I shall go behind it to bathe.”

“Do that.”

She frowned. “How do I get there?”

He shrugged wide shoulders. “Walk.”

“I’ll get wet.”

“I would hope so,” he said, then bent from the waist, drew a bar of Pears soap from his saddlebags, and laid it atop her palm. “Toss out the dress when you get there.”

Her fingers curled around the soap. “If you spy on me while I don’t have my clothes …”

“Martay, that’s the last thing I’d want to do,” he said, and meant it. If ever there was something he wished to avoid, it was the sight of this beautiful, spoiled temptress, naked in the summer sunlight with water shimmering on her bare, appealing curves.

Not believing him, but having little choice, Martay lifted her skirts to her knees and waded out into the water. It was cold, so cold, but she didn’t complain. She waded directly to the rising spire of rock, cautiously circled it, and began, somewhat awkwardly, trying to unhook her dress. She had not, for as long as she could remember, dressed or undressed herself. Lettie, her faithful maid, had always been there to help her.