Savage Heat (41 page)

She brushed his hand from her face. “Haven’t you heard one word I’ve been saying? There is no making it right. My father will kill you! He will, I know it.”

“It’s a chance I must take. For your sake as well as mine.”

“For my …? If you’re doing it for me, then don’t. I just want …”

“Martay, you said yourself your father loves you very much. I know you love him as well and I know that the day would come when you’d resent me because I took you from him.”

“No, that’s not true. You’re all …”

“It is true. Maybe not right now or even next year, but it would happen. You would miss him and want to see him. And you would begin to resent me because I’m the one responsible for your being separated from him.”

Martay stared at him. She knew it was true. She loved Night Sun with all her heart, but she still loved her father. She always would. “What are we going to do?” she said sadly.

Night Sun put a hand behind her head and urged her lips down to his. He kissed her softly and said, “We are going to face this together. I will go back and do whatever it takes to make things right. And when I’ve convinced your father that I love you and will take good care of you, I’ll come back for you. We’ll be married and … and …”

She slowly lifted her head. “And what? Will we … will we stay here or …”

“I’m not sure,
Wicincala.
I’m like you, you see. I love my grandmother the way you love your father. I’ve always promised her that as long as I’m alive, she can continue to live in freedom on these plains she loves.”

Understanding fully, Martay nodded. “When will you leave?”

Her beautiful emerald eyes were so sad, Night Sun said, “How would you like to spend a few days alone with me before I go?”

Instant joy flooded her face. “Yes! Oh, yes. We’ll stay here in your lodge and not let …”

“No, I’ve an even better idea. I’ll show you some of this rugged, beautiful country. Would you like that?”

“Like it? I’d love it! When can we leave?” She began kissing his dark face eagerly, saying, “When? When?”

Laughing, he said, “We could go right now, but …”

“Yes!” she quickly agreed, and starting to get up, said, “I’ll put on my …”

“You’ll put on nothing,” he said, interrupting, “until I’ve made love to you.”

Martay cut her eyes to his groin. She laughed happily. “Night Sun! Again?”

Grinning, he pulled her down to him. “Again.”

37

W
indwalker was smiling.

Gentle Deer was too.

The Mystic Warrior and the blind woman were pleased. Their hearts were a little lighter than usual on this chilly autumn morning as they nodded and smiled and assured one another that they had known all along the young, strong chieftain, Night Sun, was a decent man who would not disappoint them.

The aging pair prided themselves on having correctly divined the future; of having seen a golden-haired child-woman coming into their lives, and, with her beauty and spirit and goodness, changing hatred to love, despair to hope, the end to the beginning.

Long before Night Sun had brought the
wicincala
to their high plains village, The Mystic Warrior had seen her in a vision.

Unclothed and unashamed, she stood in the late afternoon sunlight atop a rugged pink palisade high in the sacred Black Hills. Her pale, slender arms outstretched, her golden hair falling about bare shoulders, she beckoned to an unseen lover far below her in the lush green valley.

A mighty Lakota chieftain, the muscles of his back and legs straining and pulling under sweat-slick skin, agilely climbed the steep, forbidding rocks to claim the child-woman for his own.

The fierce warrior reached the pale-skinned woman and enfolded her in his arms. The beautiful naked pair mated there on the rocks in that most holy place as the
Wakan Tanka
looked down on them and blessed their union.

Gentle Deer, with her sightless eyes, had seen even more than Windwalker.

In a recurring vision, she had seen her grandson and the child-woman together. And she had seen the new life that their love had produced. A strapping son with golden skin and coal-black hair and bright green eyes.

So now the two old seers, Windwalker and Gentle Deer, speaking in their native tongue, sat together in the quiet of early morning, talking of the young, healthy pair who had ridden out of camp at sunrise.

Night Sun had come to Windwalker’s lodge well before the first hint of light had appeared in the eastern sky. He had told the Mystic Warrior he loved the golden-haired woman and that he was going to make her his wife. He would, he said, ride back to the Colorado Territory and try to make peace with her soldier father.

Then Night Sun had asked for Windwalker’s understanding and his blessing. He wanted, he said, to take the
wicincala
up into their sacred Black Hills, to show her the places dearest to his Sioux heart, to spend a few precious days alone with his woman before facing the future.

Windwalker had told him to go at once. To guard the woman with his life, and to cherish her as if she were his own flesh.

And as soon as Night Sun and Martay had departed, the Mystic Warrior had hastened to Gentle Deer’s tipi, knowing she would be as joyous as he that Night Sun had finally cast off the cloak of foolishness and admitted his love for the white captive.

And now Windwalker and Gentle Deer beamed and planned and felt as though a small part of them and their band might live on. They spoke wistfully of the distant days gone by, hopefully of the uncertain days yet to come. They smiled and shook their heads and felt almost young again.

And neither dared speak of the fear that remained, even now, in their hearts. The fear that was always with them. The fear that threatened their dreams.

The fear that the very same blue-coated soldier who had blinded Gentle Deer and left Night Sun scarred, would kill the proud young chieftain they loved more than life itself.

Night Sun was smiling.

Martay was too.

Knee to knee they rode across the rolling plains in the bright morning sunshine. Both were filled with untapped energy, although neither had slept. The night had been spent making love and making plans, and before there was a morning sun they had packed up their gear and were anxious to leave.

Martay, astride her sorrel mare, her heavy blond hair tied back off her face, had borrowed from Night Sun a pair of soft elkskin trousers and a bright-red calico shirt. The pants were very snug over her rounded bottom; the pullover shirt was large and loose, and the opening kept parting to reveal to Night Sun glimpses of bare, firm breasts.

She was young and cute and devastatingly desirable to him. There was about her a wide-eyed provocativeness that only a very young girl could carry off; that purposeful flaunting of her recently discovered sexuality and freedom.

Just looking at her brought about a feverish sensation of lust that almost overpowered him. Gritting his teeth, he was tempted to reach out and grab the sorrel’s bridle, pull Martay from its back, drag her to the ground, and strip those tight, tight pants from her.

He forced his eyes toward the distant horizon, and pointing, said, “We’ll reach the Belle Fourche River by noon. We’ll stop and eat there and take a bath if you’d like.” She was nodding furiously. He smiled and continued. “After a short rest we’ll ride on, and by nightfall we’ll reach the Hills. We’ll skirt around Fort Meade,” at the words Fort Meade, Martay saw a minute tightening of his lean jaw, “and reach our most holy place,
Mato Paha,
well before sundown.”

She flashed him a playful smile. “All that sounds fine, except …” She paused and wet her lips with her tongue.

“Except what?”

“Let’s not spend the night at
Mato Paha.”

“Why not? Bear Butte—the white man’s name for it—is a beautiful place. It means sleeping bear.”

“I’m sure it is beautiful. But it’s holy, and you can’t make love to me there. Can you?” Her smile had gone; she was serious.

Charmed, he said, “Ah,
Wicincala,
do not worry. I will place you atop the Altar of Stone and worship you.” He winked at her and added, “And the
Wakan Tanka
and the spirits of all those who have gone before are welcome to watch.”

Martay laughed merrily, the sound musical and happy on the fine morning air. She said, “I don’t believe you, Night Sun.”

His handsome face wearing a devilish grin, he reined his black alongside her sorrel, leaned toward her, reached out and laid a hand on her ivory throat. While the horses continued to walk at a slow, even pace, he let his fingers travel down to her breasts, which were revealed in the half-open red shirt.

His palm covering a rapidly blossoming nipple, he said, “Ah, Miss Kidd, you will be sorry you doubted me.”

And with a swiftness that left her breathless, Night Sun plucked her from her mount and drew her atop the big black. While Martay laughed and hit at him and screamed for him to let her go, he handled her as though she were no heavier than an infant, positioning her so that she sat astride, facing him, her long, slender legs drawn over his hard thighs.

Tying the reins of Martay’s mare around her slender ankle, he draped the black’s reins over its sleek neck, ignoring Martay’s protests and threats and declarations that he was crazy. The black, well trained, pranced proudly on, commanding, in charge, his steady gait unchanged. The mare, a trifle confused, docilely followed alongside, the movement of the bit in her mouth controlled by Martay’s ankle.

“Now,” said Night Sun, his hand back inside Martay’s red shirt, “kiss me, Captive.”

Laughing, Martay happily threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. They rode on that way, kissing there atop his moving horse, each kiss growing longer, hotter, their hands growing restless, roaming, touching, their passions flaring. In minutes Night Sun had taken off Martay’s red shirt and she hadn’t tried to stop him. But she did demand that he take off his as well.

On they rode, both naked to the waist, Martay’s breasts pressing insistently against Night Sun’s smooth chest, their mouths combined in ever lengthening, hungry kisses. When finally his heated lips left hers, and Martay, faint and trembling, leaned her head against his shoulder, she heard him say into her hair, his voice heavy with desire, “I want you.”

“And I want you,” she replied, her pulse racing. “Where can we go?”

“I want you here,” said Night Sun. “Atop my horse.”

Martay, weak from his kisses, said, “You mean it? Up here?”

“Yes. Now. Here.”

“Anywhere you say, darling,” she murmured.

“I love you,” he said, and untying her mare’s bridle from her ankle and tying it around his own thigh, he moved Martay about so that she was draped across the saddle before him. Balancing her there, he undressed her, and when she was naked he put her back as she had been, facing him, legs draped over his.

Then he said, “Unlace my trousers.”

Nodding, she anxiously loosened the leather laces over his groin, pulled the opened fly apart, and gave a strangled little sigh of excitement when he burst free, huge and hard and ready to give her pleasure. Fascinated, she reluctantly lifted her eyes to his for further instruction.

“Lick all four of your fingers,
Wicincala,”
said Night Sun, a vein throbbing on his forehead, his dark face flushed. Martay lifted her hand, turned it over, put out her tongue, and licked at her fingertips while Night Sun watched. “Yes,” he praised, “like that. Lick them good. Make them wet.” Martay turned her hand about to show him her gleaming fingers. He nodded his approval and said, his thick black lashes lowering over smoldering black eyes, “Now make me wet.”

Martay willingly did as he asked. She lowered her hand to him and lovingly rubbed her fingers over the pulsing, velvet tumescence until he was shiny wet. Her breath coming fast, her swelling breasts tingling, she again lifted her eyes to his. His hands went to her rounded buttocks as he said, “Climb on to me,
Wicincala.”

As though it were the most natural thing in the world, Martay did just that. She carefully, slowly impaled herself upon that glistening rod of male strength and felt that she was the powerful one when Night Sun, his long fingers kneading the flesh of her bottom, said huskily, his breath hot upon her face, “Make love to me. Do it until you bring me. Drive me mad with your body. Do it,
Wicincala,
I know you can. Love me,
Wicincala,
love me.”

His words were a bluntly sensual invitation for her to satisfy him and Martay, ever the adventuress and longing to prove her untried prowess, was thrilled and challenged by it.

“I will,” she said with conviction, and putting her hands into Night Sun’s thick raven hair at the sides of his head, she kissed him, thrusting her tongue deeply, boldly into his mouth, and while she was kissing him she began to move her hips in an erotic, grinding motion.

Had an unsuspecting traveler happened across those dusty plains that fine September morning, he would have seen a sight so uncommon, he would not have believed his shocked eyes.

Atop a moving big black stallion, a beautiful blond woman, as naked as Eve in the Garden, was draped astride a copper-skinned Indian in tight buckskins. The blond woman was loving the bronzed savage with a total, uninhibited abandon that would have made the Gods of Love blush.

But there was no one within miles of the shameless lovers, and it was a good thing, because Martay, determined she would give her handsome Sioux the loving of his life, wantonly ground her pelvis down on him, gripping him, squeezing him with her burning body until she drew a deep, shuddering climax from him.

Proud that she had managed to hold back long enough to bring him the pleasure she had so wanted to give him, Martay let herself go. She called out his name and clung to his bare shoulders as her hips did a frantic dance and she felt the glorious sensations that never failed to astound her.

When at last all the tiny tremors had subsided and she lay draped upon Night Sun’s chest, she heard him say, with the faintest trace of a chuckle in his low baritone voice, “Any more doubts about when and where we will make love, Captive?”