Savage Heat (22 page)

She smiled back then and said dreamily, “Weren’t the white roses lovely?”

Knowing she was semiconscious, Night Sun said calmly, “They were beautiful, Martay. And you were too.”

She frowned and said, “You’ve never said that before.” Her eyes closed and she slipped back into unconsciousness.

A vein throbbed on his dark forehead. And he whispered, “No. But I’ve thought it since the first moment I saw you.”

Martay remained in the lodge of the Lakota medicine man for three days. The shaman called on the Wakan Tanka, and with the Great Spirit guiding him, he performed the secret healing rituals of his ancestors. Passing an eagle’s wing over her face, he ordered the evil spirits of death to fly from her body. He shook a great gourd rattle close to her ear to waken her sleeping good health. He built the fire high and stripped her bare to her waist. Then, from a small leather pouch, he poured onto her chest and stomach a dozen sharp, gleaming panther’s teeth to eat away the poison from inside her. He made a fist, pricked his vein with a sharp needle fashioned of buffalo bone, dipped a finger into the bright-red blood, and drew a crimson cross directly over her heart. Commanding the diseased, slowly beating organ to pump healthy blood like that he painted atop it, he repeated the process each time the blood dried on her breasts, using the fresh blood from his vein.

When he had done all that, and a dozen other things as well, he finally summoned Night Sun. It was late at night. The village was sleeping.

Night Sun hurried to the shaman’s lodge on the east edge of the camp. Out of breath, he ducked in, his dark eyes questioning, fear making his chest constrict.

He looked immediately toward the sick girl. Her eyes were closed. She was either sleeping or she was …

He said, “Is she …”

Windwalker, his face solemn, said, “I can do no more.”

“Will she die?”

“Only the Great Spirit knows,” said the Mystic Warrior.

19

D
ark thunderheads boiled up in the blue summer sky as the body was lowered into the newly dug grave. The small, solemn gathering bowed their heads respectfully when a tall, grim-faced man stepped forward and sprinkled the first handful of fresh dirt over the corpse. The man paused then, looked one last lingering time down at the departed, turned, and left.

While raindrops mingled with the tears on his cheeks, the tall man strode purposefully away, heartsick, shocked that someone so young, so strong, so vitally alive, could be dead.

Major Lawrence Berton quickened his step, anxious to be far from the post cemetery. While the regimental bugler blew Taps, the sad refrain carrying on the quiet, heavy air, and four able-bodied troopers came forward to complete the shoveling task, the gloomy major headed for his quarters and the bottle of Kentucky bourbon in his locker.

The quarters were deserted. The major was relieved. He didn’t feel like seeing anyone. Didn’t want to talk. Wanted only to drink alone, to numb his pain for a while.

Stripping off his rain-sprinkled blouse, the major drew out the bottle and a glass. Tossing down two full ounces of the whiskey, he made a face and poured another. The fiery liquid felt good burning its way down his throat and into his aching chest. He held up the near-full bottle and nodded his blond head. He would drink the whole damned thing, see if he could blot everything out. Martay’s disappearance. And now this unexpected passing of a good friend.

He had tipped the glass up for the third time when a near voice said, “Major, I’m sorry.”

Lawrence Berton’s head swung around. The post surgeon stood in the doorway. Berton frowned as the short, balding physician, uninvited, advanced on him.

“We did all we could,” said the doctor.

“It wasn’t enough, Doc,” replied Berton, tiredly. “Dane Johnson was twenty-five and strong as a bull. Surely there was …”

“Son, there is no known cure for Rocky Mountain spotted fever. Captain Johnson was an unlucky young man. He contracted a disease that’s a sure death sentence.”

Lawrence Berton was about to object further when another officer entered. The commanding officer, Colonel Thomas Darlington. With his eyes the colonel silently dismissed the bald-headed doctor and, sighing wearily, took a seat on the empty cot.

The dead man’s cot.

Running a hand over the taut army blanket, Colonel Darlington said, “I know Captain Johnson’s death hit you hard, Major. Especially coming right on top of …” He shook his head. Then, rising, continued, “Major, I’m ordering you off the post. Leave the fort immediately. Ride to my home in Denver. Stay there for a few days.” He stepped closer to the taller, younger man. Putting a firm hand on Berton’s shoulder, he said, “What works best for me when I’m combating grief, is to … ah … I understand Mattie Silks has some very beautiful women at her Holliday Street house.”

Lawrence Berton blinked at Darlington. “Jesus, sir, don’t tell me with a wife like yours you could …”

“My God, no! No. I didn’t mean that. My wife’s all any man could … Regina’s so desirable I …” Darlington cleared his throat. “We’re getting off the subject and I really don’t think we should be mentioning my dear wife’s name in the same breath with prostitutes.”

“No offense, sir.”

“And none taken, Major. Now, as I was saying, you’re to go on immediate leave. Take a little pleasure from life. Get drunk. See the ladies.” He grinned slightly, his face reddening.

Looking at his commanding officer, Lawrence Berton nodded. “Will you be riding in with me, Colonel?”

“No. In the general’s absence I’ll remain here, Major. Perhaps when you report back to duty at the end of your five-day furlough, I’ll then ride in and take my place at the head of the Darlington dinner table. Until then, you may fill my empty chair.”

“As you wish, Colonel.”

It was nearing noon the next day when, tired and dirty and morose, Major Lawrence Berton rode up the circular driveway of the Darlington estate. Welcomed into the vast foyer by a polite servant, the despondent Berton quickly learned that General Kidd remained out in the field. That his father, Senator Douglas, was down in Denver, lunching with the city’s politicos at Haw Tabor’s Sherman Street mansion. That only the mistress, Regina Darlington, was at home and would be coming down shortly for lunch.

“Shall I have a plate set for you, Major?” asked the white-gloved butler.

“By all means,” came a soft, feminine voice before Lawrence Berton could respond. He looked up to see Regina Darlington, stunning in a stylish dress of apricot faille, her red curls gleaming, standing at the top of the stairs. “You may go, Johnathan,” she dismissed the servant.

“Yes, ma’am,” said the butler, and disappeared into the back of the house. Lifting her skirts, Regina Darlington slowly, gracefully, descended to the waiting officer, her ruby-red lips turned up into an appealing smile of unmistakable welcome, her eyes boldly holding his.

Pausing two steps from the bottom, she stopped. Her full, barely concealed bosom was at his eye level. She purposely drew a deep, slow breath and said, “Major, you look so glum. What is it?”

“I just conducted the funeral of a fellow officer.”

“My goodness, how upsetting for you. Whatever happened? Did the Indians kill him?”

“No, ma’am. He died of Rocky Mountain fever.” His blond chin sagged on his chest.

She shook her head and the red curls danced. “Major, there’s no cure for the fever. We all know that.” She cupped his jaws in her hands and lifted his face. “Now, you are just going to forget all about deaths and funerals and … and … everything else that’s been bothering you.”

Recalling the colonel’s advice, he was sorry he’d come to the estate. He should have ridden straight to Mattie Silks. Now he was stuck. At least through lunch. He said, “If only I could.”

“But you can, Major. I’ll help you. Besides, I’m ever so happy you’re here. I thought I would have to spend the long, hot day all alone.”

His eyes hopelessly drawn to the pale, perfect breasts, he said, “Allow me to go upstairs and clean up, then I’ll …”

“No such thing,” she scolded, moving one hand out to rest atop his broad shoulder. Toying with the golden oakleaf on his blue uniform blouse, she leaned closer and whispered, “Let’s have our meal first. Then, who knows? Perhaps the handsome major could persuade the lonely lady to wash his back.”

Major Berton was shocked. He was sure she must be teasing. True, she’d smiled flirtatiously at him many times and her sparkling eyes had looked at him in a manner no married woman ever had, but …

Regina stepped around him and swept directly into the sun-splashed dining room. His depression lifting, the major eagerly followed, charmed by her brash teasing. Certain that that was all that it was, still it wouldn’t hurt to delay his trip to Denver until he’d shared lunch with the red-haired beauty.

At Regina’s insistence Larry Berton took Colonel Darlington’s place at the head of the table.

Regina Darlington, seated near him, said, “Already you’re smiling, Larry. That’s good. I like that. You have a cute, boyish smile I find most appealing.” She picked up a ripe red strawberry from the silver fruit platter. “Tell me, Major, are you still a boy?” She dipped the berry into a bowl of thick, rich cream. “Or are you a man?” She popped the dripping fruit into her open lips, sucking it, nibbling, while her eyes held his. Then she swallowed it, leaving a circle of the ivory cream on her red lips.

Lawrence Berton automatically licked his own lips. “I … I’m a man, Mrs. Darlington.”

She leaned up to the table. “Major, if you are, then why not do what you’re dying to do.”

“Ma’am?”

“Kiss the cream from my lips.”

He swallowed, looked anxiously about, and remained undecided for only a second. Wondering if she’d stop him, he pushed back his chair, rose, and leaning over her, captured her chin with his hand. His lips covered hers and hers told his she most assuredly had not been joking. Larry Berton kissed the cream from her lips and dropped back into his chair, his heart drumming a rapid cadence.

It was a most enjoyable meal.

A bottle of the finest champagne had been brought up from the wine cellar and chilled. The pair drank as though the bubbly wine was lemonade, and Regina promptly sent a servant scurrying back down for another bottle. When it was carried in, chilling deep down in the icy depths of its silver bucket, Regina ordered yet another, planning ahead, envisioning an afternoon of tipsy lovemaking.

Major Berton was still not sure of her plans. He couldn’t believe that Colonel Darlington’s lovely wife would actually consider anything too improper with one of his regiment. Not right in her own mansion. No harm done if the lady flirted and teased and made him feel as Martay had once made him feel.

“Chill the third bottle and leave it in the summerhouse, Walter,” Regina said, smiling. Then added quickly, ever mindful that she must not raise the servant’s suspicion, “The senator likes the summerhouse. Perhaps he might enjoy a glass of champagne when he returns from town this afternoon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Walter, and went to do her bidding.

After that Regina made a great game of flirting outrageously with the delighted major while the servants, serving lunch, came in and out of the dining room. She was adept at the exercise. She’d done it many times before.

Major Berton’s champagne glass was refilled every time it was emptied. The despair that had burdened him since Martay’s disappearance lifted, and his good manners and gentlemanly behavior also went the way of his gloom. He was growing quite drunk and his keen sense of reasoning was more than a little impaired.

He looked at the beautiful woman finishing the last of her dessert. He grinned foolishly. He was taking the colonel’s place at his table and he could take his place in bed as well if he liked. And he liked.

Draining the champagne glass, he slammed it down on the table, and said, “Come here, Regina.”

Regina carefully blotted her mouth with a fine damask napkin, rose, pushed back her chair, and stood up. She swept over to the connecting door to the butler’s pantry and called, “The major and I wish to drink our coffee without being disturbed.” Then she closed the door and, smiling wickedly, went to stand beside Larry Berton’s chair.

“What is it, Larry?” she asked ever so innocently, her eyes twinkling.

His answer was to take her arm and pull her down across his lap. “Are you a woman?” he slurred. “Are you going to finish what you’ve started?”

Before she could answer, his mouth was on hers, hot and hungry, and Regina Darlington couldn’t have been more delighted. For a few dangerous, delicious moments, she allowed the aroused major to kiss and fondle her there in the dining room. She didn’t stop him when he lifted her apricot faille skirts up past her dimpled knees. She sighed with pleasure when his big square hand caressed her creamy thighs and his mouth roamed hotly, hungrily, over her bare shoulders and down across the swell of her breasts.

But when the excited major raised his golden head and said huskily, “I want to take you right here, right now,” Regina giggled nervously and shook her red head.

“Darling, darling, we can’t. The servants. Go upstairs to your room. Then hurry onto the balcony and down the back stairs to the summerhouse. I’ll be waiting there to prove I’m a woman who means to finish what she’s started.”

With that she got up and, her eyes going immediately down to the hard, heavy flesh straining the major’s tight trousers, she put a hand to her throat and said, “Oh, Larry, let’s hurry.”

Breathlessly, Regina swept from the room, and as he left he heard her telling the servants that she and the major were finished with their meal; that the major was going upstairs to rest. That she had overindulged and was going to take a stroll around the gardens.

Eagerly Larry Berton climbed the stairs, hurried into the guest room, crossed it, and stepped out into the brilliant sunshine. He was across the balcony and down the back stairs in seconds and crossing the vast green lawn to the white summerhouse.

Regina, taking a moment to go to her room and freshen up, was shaking as she unstoppered her most expensive French perfume. The handsome blond major promised to be ardent and she had been without a lover since Jim Savin had disappeared. Dear God, she sacrilegiously prayed, please let Larry Berton be just half as good as Jim.