Savage Heat (19 page)

A wave of homesickness swept over Martay as she stood there in the thigh-high water, trying valiantly to disrobe unaided. She missed Lettie and Big Dexter and Amos. And all the other servants. She missed all her old friends back in Chicago. She missed the new friends in Denver. She missed the kind Emersons and she missed big Larry Berton and she missed her dear father. She missed …

“Martay, what are you waiting for?” A deep voice cut into her reverie. “Toss out the dress.”

“I’ll toss out the dress if I can ever get the blasted thing off!” she shouted, irritably.

“Shall I help?”

“Stay right where you are!”

Finally she was able to get the soiled silk gown undone and off, and after throwing it over the rock in the direction of Night Sun, she nervously looked all about, drew a deep breath, shrugged, and shimmied out of her naughty French satin underwear.

A high cloud passed over the sun, casting the chilled waters in dark shadow.

For several miserable moments, Martay stood there shivering. She felt so vulnerable without her clothes. Here she was, the envied “Golden Girl” of Chicago, Illinois, stark naked in a cold mountain stream somewhere in the wilderness, alone with a hard-hearted, hostile Indian who was taking her God knew where. Her heart drumming a rapid cadence, Martay crossed her arms over her bare breasts and trembled violently, hopelessness invading her very soul.

The sun reappeared.

Its fierce rays beat down on Martay’s upturned face and bare shoulders, warming her, reassuring her. Forcing her fears aside, she smiled suddenly, feeling better, thinking that surely nothing too bad could happen on such a glorious summer day.

Soon Martay was enjoying immensely her long, refreshing bath there in the clean, rushing mountain stream. Sighing, she sat down on the smooth stone bottom and let the cold waters close around her shoulders. Dipping her head back so that her long, tangled hair was fully saturated, she took up the soap and gave herself a good scrubbing, savoring every delicious minute, forgetting so completely, at least for the pleasurable moment, her dire circumstances. She hummed softly to herself.

On the other side of Martay’s concealing rock, Night Sun, crouching on his heels at water’s edge, painstakingly washing her delicate silk dress, caught the sound of her humming and shook his dark head. He wondered at the questionable intelligence, the supreme arrogance of the foolish young woman who, naked and defenseless, could be humming a lilting tune as though she had not a care in the world, when only hours before he had come very close to raping her.

Night Sun ground his teeth.

The golden-tressed beauty was so used to being coddled and protected, she could not conceive of anything bad ever happening to her. It was evident that from the cradle this deceptively sweet-faced creature had effortlessly ruled those around her, never giving a thought to anything save her own comfort and enjoyment. In the weeks he had observed her in Denver, she had easily collected men’s hearts as if they were mere trinkets to be added to a little-worn charm bracelet. Obviously she considered him no different from the others. So sure was she of her charms, she most likely supposed he would soon fall under her spell, like all the rest.

God, what a foolish, vain little bitch he had kidnapped.

Blissfully unaware of her captor’s harsh mood, Martay splashed about in the water, laughing and shouting like the unthinking child he considered her. It was wonderful to bathe after all those uncomfortable days and nights in her hot, sticky clothes. Splendid to be naked in a cold, clear stream under a hot alpine sun. Soaping her long, tangled hair, she gave her scalp a good, vigorous rubbing, then ducked her head to rinse. She came up sputtering and laughing, lost in a world of her own.

When her hair was squeaky-clean and her satin underthings had been washed out and her bare body was as fresh and slippery as if she’d reclined in her big marble tub back in the Chicago mansion, Martay, almost reluctantly, pulled the wet, lacy underwear back on and climbed out of the water. Taking a seat on the slanting face of the huge rock, she ran her fingers through her long, sopping hair, drew it all together over her left shoulder, and wound it like a rope, squeezing the water from it.

Then she stretched out on her back to allow the hot sun to dry her wet underwear. Shading her eyes with a bent arm, she lay there totally relaxed, satisfied for the moment, unwilling to think past this hour. The heat of the sun felt good on her chilled body. She stretched, sighed, and swept her arms up behind her head. A pleasant languor claiming her, Martay was lulled by the peaceful repetitive sound of the rushing water, of birds singing sweetly from the trees on the bank.

She smiled to herself.

If the circumstances were only different, she would actually be enjoying this outing immensely. Never in her life had she trekked into the wilderness, bathed in a cold mountain stream, lain in the hot sun in her undies.

The distant report of a rifle made Martay’s eyes fly open.

“Martay!” shouted Night Sun, and she heard him splashing into the water. By the time she sat up, he was rounding the granite boulder, his dark face forbidding. Before she could speak, he plucked her from the rock, lifted her up into his arms, and dashed back through the stream, carrying her, the water slapping at his buckskin-clad thighs.

“What is it, Night Sun?” she asked when he stepped onto the bank.

“Gather up the gear,” he commanded, his voice authoritative. Automatically she reached for her wet dress, anxious to be covered. His hand atop her shoulder stopped her. “Do as I tell you,” he said.

She nodded and went about grabbing up their things. Minutes after they’d heard the shot, they had deserted their streamside camp and were crouched inside a deep fissure of earth so narrow, the big black bumped his sides entering it. Hidden by thick, tangled undergrowth, the narrow-sided crevice was the ideal hiding place, save for its lack of space.

Martay obediently took a seat on the blanket Night Sun tossed on the rock floor. He crouched on his heels before her and placed a vertical finger across his closed lips, indicating she was not to make a sound. She nodded. And almost laughed at his foolishness when he turned about, pulled the black stallion’s head low, and said something into its ear. She had no doubt he was telling it to remain quiet also, as though a dumb animal could understand him.

Men’s voices were getting steadily closer. Martay tensed, waiting. She looked at Night Sun, then at the stallion. The black had caught the scent of the approaching horses and Martay knew any second he would be whinnying madly. She watched as Night Sun calmly stroked the black’s shiny coat, long, dark fingers gently patting, calming the beast.

The black’s eyes were wild; his powerful neck was arched. His ears were cocked, nostrils flaring. But he didn’t make a sound. Not a single whinny.

The fact that the mighty stallion remained obediently quiet for his bronzed master frightened Martay almost as much as last night’s attack. Night Sun effortlessly exercised some strange, undefinable power over the big brute. She herself had felt the effects of that awesome power; and looking at him now, crouched there on his heels, gently stroking the big stallion, she had the sinking sensation that he could, if she didn’t fight it, make her his obedient possession, just like the stallion.

Martay blinked in disbelief when the cocksure Lakota dropped his hand away from the horse, confident the trusted beast would remain totally silent. Night Sun turned about to face her, and in his expressive black eyes she read the message: “You, Martay, belong to me, just as the horse belongs to me. You will be just as dutiful, just as quiet.”

Martay refused to let that happen. Damn him to hell! She would scream bloody murder! There were mounted soldiers within yards of them now. All she had to do was scream and they would hear her. There was nothing to keep her from it. No gun was leveled at her. Night Sun wasn’t touching her. No gag was covering her mouth this time. There was no way possible he could keep her from crying out, and that’s just what she’d do!

As if he had read her thoughts, Night Sun slowly reached out and cupped her bare shoulders with his hands. Martay swallowed nervously, preparing to scream. His warm fingers began to glide up and down her trembling arms, stroking, rubbing, calming. She opened her mouth, but, to her horror, no scream came. No sound of any kind. Nothing. She could not make herself scream or shout or call for help. She couldn’t, for reasons she did not understand, disobey Night Sun. Mortified, furious, she looked angrily into his eyes. They were hot and dark. Her anger fled and she trembled.

And remembered, suddenly, that she was wearing only a wet satin chemise and daringly brief matching satin drawers that reached only to mid-thigh.

Night Sun’s masterful hands continued to slide sensuously up and down her bare arms, his thumbs grazing her ribs. Shaking her head no, she forced herself to break contact with his heated, commanding gaze. Lowering her head, she was further mortified. The wet chemise clearly outlined her nipples, peaking from the cold of the clinging satin. Or from the warmth of those hot, dark eyes?

No! Her brain screamed, even if her voice would not work. No, no, no. This arrogant savage could not do this to her. He could not bend her will to his. He could not make her weak and breathless with his touch. She was not a damned dumb animal!

Night Sun unceremoniously took his hands from her. Then he leaned lazily back against the wall of rock and boldly observed her, his black eyes touching her more intimately than his hands had ever dared. Martay felt her breath grow short.

He was staring directly at her breasts, his eyes so intense, so hot, she felt the invading heat burn right through the damp chemise to the bare flesh underneath. Her breasts swelled painfully and her nipples hardened and ached and pressed against the restraining satin.

That dangerous black gaze slowly dropped to her quivering belly and Martay pressed her trembling knees more tightly together and wished there were more room in this close, hot redoubt. She was seated on the blanket with her legs curled to one side, her weight supported on a stiff arm. Had she planned it, she couldn’t have chosen a more provocative pose, and yet there was no space for her to change positions.

So while mounted troopers cantered within yards of her, shouting and laughing and pondering just where the general’s pretty blond daughter might be, Martay sat there, obediently silent, half naked, so snared by a pair of hot black eyes, she was totally oblivious of the world around her.

Martay was not entirely certain what was happening to her. She was not herself; was not in control; was guided by some intangible force so strong, she couldn’t fight it. And didn’t want to fight. Incredible warmth was spreading through her body, and she squirmed and postured and writhed, all the while looking straight at the lounging Lakota. Her swollen breasts and the insides of her thighs tingled and quivered and responded just as though his long, lean fingers were intimately touching her.

Frighteningly aroused, Martay licked her lips and threw back her head, arching her long, white throat. She extended her slender bare legs out as far as space allowed, rolling more fully onto her bottom to sit flat. And she raised her arms to push her long, clean hair atop her head, sighing, drawing a deep, slow breath, causing the rapidly drying chemise to pull and bind over her ample curves. And she never really realized she was posturing seductively for the black-eyed man across from her.

She was, as usual, thinking only of herself. Martay was enjoying this strange excitement and, as sophisticated as she prided herself on being, she was not quite worldly enough to fully realize what was happening. That this handsome, dangerous savage was making love to her just as surely as if his dark hands were on her. That she was giving herself to him, reveling in the erotic pleasure he was so effortlessly providing.

With his dark, sultry eyes he invaded, caressed, claimed for his own every luscious, sensitive inch of her undulating body. And she willingly, eagerly, surrendered herself to the powerful mastery of those incredible black eyes.

The strangely enjoyable interlude might have lasted longer, save for a tiny chipmunk. Frightened by a cavalryman’s horse, the furry little creature skittered from its hole inches from Martay’s left arm. The sudden, unexpected movement made Martay jump, and the man looking at her knew she was on the verge of screaming.

There was only one way to prevent it.

With a swiftness that gave Martay no chance, either to scream or to move, he was to her. He held her viselike in one strong, muscular arm, as though he would never let her go, and his lips, hard and determined, covered her soft, dewy mouth in a kiss meant only to silence her.

But she, like him, was still in a state of sweet sexual arousal, so her lips opened to him, letting him taste. His tongue penetrated and Martay sighed with exquisite pleasure. The kiss was hot and deep and long. So very long.

They kissed hungrily, anxiously, there in that small, dim place. Night Sun was crouched on his heels before her, his spread knees enclosing Martay’s scantily clad torso as he pulled her up to him. Her head was thrown back to accept his kiss, her breasts pressing his chest. Her hands went up to grasp at the thick raven hair of his head as she sucked at his tongue and sighed and felt she could never get enough of this extraordinary man.

Night Sun prolonged the searing, voluptuous kiss long after its necessity had passed. When finally he dragged his burning lips from hers, the troopers had left the area. His heart thundering, he clasped Martay’s head and pressed her hot face to his chest while he fought for breath.

Weak and trembling, Martay gasped anxiously for air, her sharpened senses assailed with the hot, thrilling scent of him. He smelled of clean sweat and sun-heated flesh and an unfamiliar male scent she did not recognize. She inhaled and wondered momentarily if his heart would pound right out of his chest, so heavy and rapidly was it beating.

Above her head, Night Sun’s black eyes were closed in agony. His senses, too, were being assaulted with her essence. She smelled of soap-perfumed tresses and freshly scrubbed flesh and the unique, pleasing scent of sexual arousal.