Savage Heat (35 page)

T
he pale-skinned woman, her golden head resting on a sleek, coppery shoulder, was smiling in her sleep. The dark Sioux chieftain in whose arms she lay was not.

His black eyes troubled, Night Sun lay staring up at the ever brightening sunshine streaming down through the tipi’s opened smoke hole. He’d not slept. Had not closed his eyes. He had, as promised, made love to Martay until “the dawn turned the silvery light bathing them to the glaring sunshine of day.”

When dawn had broken, they had been making sweet, slow, lazy love, and by the time they reached total ecstasy, a rapidly rising September sun had washed their joined bodies with a soft pastel light. Afterward, Martay had fallen asleep in his arms.

Now, in peaceful slumber, her slender ivory body kissed by the soft pink sunlight, she seemed an ethereal, not-of-this-world creature. Surely no mere mortal could appear so angelic, so trusting, so heart-stoppingly beautiful.

Awed by the naked perfection in his arms, Night Sun, for a long, silent time, had lain and looked at her, his eyes worshiping every gentle curve and plane of her bare body, every single silky eyelash, each long golden hair of her head.

He ran his fingers over her slender shoulder and down her arm. He touched an arched hip, a curved thigh, a dimpled knee. He carefully lifted a lock of her golden hair and stretched it across his bare chest, unconsciously pulling it along the white-satin path of his old scar.

He looked down at the streamer of gold lying in a valley of white on his dark skin. He shuddered and felt his chest constrict. And as though the soft golden hair were an evil, deadly thing, he brushed it away, anxious to have it off him, feeling his flesh suddenly crawl with distaste.

Night Sun ground his teeth.

Cold, harsh reality came flooding in with the encompassing sunshine. Regret and confusion plagued him. He was not proud of himself. He had taken Martay’s virginity, and while he reasoned that she was only the rich, spoiled daughter of the soldier responsible for the scar down his chest and for Gentle Deer’s blindness, it helped little.

The rising, gnawing guilt made him angry. Angry with Martay. He had naturally assumed, judging by her reputation and from observing her brazen behavior, that she was an experienced woman, that she’d had lovers.

Not at all happy knowing he was her first, Night Sun eased her arm from around his waist and moved away from her. Rising onto an elbow, he glared at the innocent-looking face. And his guilt and anger grew. Ashamed of what he had done, Night Sun, for the first time in his life, felt uncomfortable and remorseful lying naked with a beautiful woman to whom he had made love.

He shook his dark head.

Martay had led him to believe she was as worldly as Regina Darlington. He had presumed they could enjoy a night of lovemaking and there would be no regrets come morning. But he did regret it. He had promised Windwalker he would return his captive to her family exactly as she had come to him.

Night Sun felt a measure of unease mix with his displeasure. The Mystic Warrior was not easily fooled. Windwalker would know. And he would not approve of a trusted Lakota chieftain taking the innocence of a helpless white girl.

Night Sun rose. His face set in hard angles, he glared at the deceitful woman sleeping peacefully as though nothing had happened. Lying there below him, one knee turned out to the side, she was unselfconsciously displaying all her naked charms like the wanton he’d thought—hoped—her to be. And she was smiling in her slumber. While he became increasingly more tortured and repentant.

And angry.

Feeling the hot September sun slowly climb up her bare legs, Martay began to rouse. Eyes still closed, she stretched and sighed and erotically rubbed her bare belly against the soft fur bed, instantly recalling the night’s lovely rapture. She reached a searching hand out toward Night Sun.

She patted lazily at the fur, swept her palm about, and finally opened her eyes. He was not there. Night Sun was not lying beside her. She had so wanted to open her eyes and see him sleeping soundly; longed to see those girlishly long black eyelashes making silky shadows atop the dark, slanting cheekbones.

“Night Sun?” she said, her voice heavy with sleep and affection. “Darling?” She yawned and rolled over onto her back.

And froze with fear.

The warm, passionate lover of the night had disappeared. In his place, a hard-faced, cold-eyed tribal chief in full regalia stood angrily staring down at her. His raven hair was formally bound with hand-embroidered felt. Ropes of rare turquoise beads hung from his bronzed neck. His fringed shirt and tight leggings pulled tautly on his tall, spare frame. His moccasined feet were wide apart. And in his long, lean fingers he held an elegant gold-and-wood hand-engraved walking stick with a solid gold head. He was rhythmically slapping the cane against his open palm.

“Night Sun?” she murmured, feeling uneasy and confused. “What … what is it?” She looked about for something to hide her nakedness. There was nothing. She sat up, curled her legs to one side, and crossed her arms over her bare breasts. “Why are you dressed like that?”

She flinched involuntarily when the cane’s gold head struck the palm of his hand with a loud thud. And she flinched yet again when, deliberately slowly, Night Sun crouched down on his heels before her, his black eyes mean and accusing.

He pointed the cane at her. “Do you recognize this?”

Begging the tears that were stinging the backs of her eyes not to fall, Martay said, “I … it’s a cane, I …”

“This, Miss Martay Kidd, is the walking stick Abraham Lincoln presented, long ago, to my grandfather, Walking Bear. Do you know why the great White Father gave this walking stick to my grandfather?”

Her bare body became covered with gooseflesh, Martay shook her head. “No. No, I don’t, but I …”

“As a symbol of our tribe’s sovereign authority.” Night Sun’s dark, scowling face darkened even more, and Martay gasped in surprised fear when he angrily snapped the walking stick across his bent knee and threw the shattered ends across the tipi. “Does it look like the Sioux has sovereign authority over this land?” He glared at her.

“I don’t know, I … no, I guess …”

He rose to his full, imposing height, reached up behind his head, and in one swift movement jerked his fringed shirt off and dropped it beside her. He tapped his chest, making certain he had her full attention, then let his fingertips move slowly down the long white scar as she watched, open-mouthed.

He said, “Know who did this to me?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ve asked and you would never tell …”

“The white man. A blue-coated trooper gave this to me. I was ten years old and unarmed.”

“Who was he? Do you know?” she said, barely above a whisper, a hint of the awful truth dawning somewhere in her confused thoughts.

For a long, tension-filled moment Night Sun simply stared at her with those cruel black eyes. When finally he spoke, he said, “Last night should never have happened. You’re white. I’m Lakota. Nothing can ever change that.”

Hurt, and growing angry herself, Martay scrambled to her feet; stood there, naked, with her hands on her hips. “You’re half white so …”

“No,” he cut her off. “I am, and will forever be, a Lakota Sioux chieftain.”

“Well, Chief, you sure liked making love to a white woman. How do you square that with your mighty Lakota conscience?”

He looked for a minute as though he might strike her. He said, “I can’t.” His frigid eyes traveled down her body. “Get clothed and stay clothed when I’m around.”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong!” she shouted. “What happened between last night and now?”

“Nothing.” He bent from the waist, picked up his discarded buckskin shirt, and thrust it at her. “Put this on.”

“Why?” she taunted, and refused to take it from him. “I thought you liked me with no clothes. That’s what you said. Said you wanted to keep me naked in your tipi forever.”

Night Sun’s eyes narrowed. “Stop shouting.”

“I want to shout. I want all your fine, upright people to know what we’ve been doing. Remember what you were doing to me at dawn, Chief?” She saw the pain cross his face and was pleased.

“Don’t …”—he shook his head—“do not call me Chief.”

“Why not? Isn’t that what you are? A proud Lakota chieftain who feels dirty this morning because he spent the night making love to the white enemy?”

His hand shot out and his long fingers captured her defiant chin. Holding it firmly between thumb and forefinger, he leaned to her and said, “What happened here last night had nothing to do with making love.”

“It didn’t?” she said, and suddenly she looked and sounded like a hurt, confused child. “What was it, then, if not love? I was making love to you. I thought you were making love to me.” She lifted her hands to his trim waist. Frantically clutching at his bare ribs, she said, “But you weren’t, were you? You were … you were just using me for a night of … it meant nothing to you. Dear God, you used me like … like a … didn’t you?”

“I’m Indian, you’re white” he said, as if that were an explanation.

“Answer me, damn you!” she shouted, tears beginning to pool in the corners of her eyes. “Were you just using me?”

“Yes. An Indian brave using his white captive,” he said, meaning to hurt her, knowing that he had when the tears overflowed and streaked down her beautiful flushed face.

“I … I … you were my … there’s never been anyone else,” she said, beginning to sob openly, her heart broken. “D-did you … know … th-that?”

“I am sorry,” he said, and feeling as though someone had plunged a knife deeply into his chest, Night Sun took her bare shoulders, set her back, turned on his heel and left her there.

Martay, trembling with emotion, slumped down to the soft fur bed, put her head on her bent arms, and cried uncontrollably. Her bare body jerked with her wracking sobs. She wept with despair and with shame and with fear. She had so completely surrendered her body and soul to a man who had used her callously. She was, he had coldly pointed out this morning, his white captive, to be used for his pleasure.

Used. What a horrid word. What a horrid reality. Night Sun had used her. Night Sun cared nothing for her. Night Sun hated her.

Instinctively, Martay turned into a fetal position, pressing her trembling knees firmly together, wishing the tenderness between her legs did not so vividly bring back all the pain and pleasure. Wishing she had never lain naked beneath a beautiful savage warrior. Wishing she had never felt his hands on her, his lips on hers, his body in hers.

“I hate you,” she sobbed miserably, loving him, fearing him, knowing she must somehow get away.

 * * *

Night Sun went at once for his horse. Ignoring the friendly braves’ inquiries regarding his destination and the offers to ride along with him, he mounted the big black, wheeled him swiftly about, dug his moccasined heels into the beast’s flanks, and shot away from camp. He thundered across the rolling plains while the hot autumn winds stung his face and burned his unblinking eyes.

His face set, his back rigid, he guided the mighty steed toward the distant
Paha Sapa,
his heart aching, his troubled spirit seeking solace. For three hours he rode without stopping, and then only to water his blowing, winded mount.

On the grassy, sloping banks of Belle Fourche River, Night Sun tossed the reins to the ground, threw a long leg over, and dropped to his feet. The thirsty horse moved forward, lowered his great head, blew in the water, lifted his wet muzzle, shook his head about. Then lowered it once more and began drinking greedily.

Night Sun lay down on his belly beside the huge horse. His hands on the bank, weight supported on bent elbows, he leaned far out and drank like a cat, his lips barely touching the water, his tongue lapping until his thirst was quenched. He raised his dark head, wiped his mouth on a bare arm, and rose.

He waited until the black lifted his head and looked at him. Then he was up on its back again and they were splashing across the cold stream they had just drunk from. The sun was in the west when horse and rider reached the
Paha Sapa
—the sacred Black Hills.

At sunset Night Sun sat, tired and repentant, on a jutting precipice, very near the pit where he had sat as a boy for four days and four nights without food and water, seeking his vision.

Alone now in this sacred place, Night Sun sat, arms on knees, staring at the dying sun. He felt as frightened as he had all those years ago when he was sixteen. Then he was afraid of being alone and of the darkness and of dangerous animals. That did not frighten him now. He welcomed the solitude, looked forward to the covering blackness, appreciated the beauty of the bobcat. His was a far more formidable foe than loneliness or darkness or wild animals.

A slender golden-haired white girl.

32

I
n the days that followed, Martay kept her distance from her impervious captor. Hating him more than ever, she began seriously to entertain the idea of escape. It wouldn’t be easy because Night Sun, as though he could see right into her thoughts, had withdrawn her riding privileges. Nevertheless, she began to make plans. Knowing that if she hoped to be successful, she must lull the cold half-breed and catch him off guard, she became, more than ever, the dutiful, model prisoner.

The two of them were never alone together; Night Sun saw to that. But when he visited his grandmother and found Martay there, she was quiet and courteous and effectively kept her fear and hatred of him from showing when their eyes infrequently met.

Determined she would arouse no suspicion, she kept her secret hurt submerged and treated Night Sun as if nothing had happened between them. He, too, behaved as if the long, intimate night in his tipi had never taken place and Martay supposed it was easy for him, since it had meant nothing. A few hours of amusement provided by his foolish white captive. A base hunger sated by using the closest available woman. A drunken interlude promptly forgotten with the return of sobriety.

There were hours when Martay was almost able to forget, herself. She purposely pushed from mind the way she felt when Night Sun had held and kissed and loved her. Shut her ears to the recollection of sweet love words he had murmured in the moonlight. Closed her eyes to the recurring sight of him naked and aroused and savagely beautiful.