The Darkest Heart (18 page)

“Is something funny?” she asked in an icy voice.

He straightened, and the smile burst, wreathing his face. “No,” he said, and started laughing.

“Just what is so funny?” she cried furiously.

“You!” he said, laughing harder. “My God! For such a graceful woman, you move like a hurricane! Candie,
shiji
, I must teach you how to walk.”

She stared. She stared at him, laughing. She waited for him to stop, and when he finally did, her voice was as casual as she could make it. “So,” she said, “is that woman your mistress?”

“Is Datiye your mistress?” she repeated.

He could see that she was upset, and it stunned him. This was the second time she had asked him that, her tone high and tense. Why would she care if he had another woman? Was she jealous? That thought was intoxicating. She also seemed ready to lash out at him, and now was not the time. The night was looming before them. Tonight they had to share their
gohwah
to seal their marriage, and he didn’t want to have to carry her forcibly there—no Apache that he had ever known had taken a wife forcibly; brides made their own choices. Of course, thinking about the deception disturbed him, until he reminded himself it was to her benefit too—it was marry him or be left behind as Hayilkah’s property.

“Well? Is Datiye your mistress?” Candice demanded.

“No.” His gaze was searching.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m not a liar.”

“No? Then why did Datiye say she was your mistress?”

At her tone, his jaw went tight. “She’s jealous of you,” he said. He put his hand on her shoulder without thinking and felt her entire body go tense. Instantly he withdrew it. “I imagine women have been jealous of you your whole life, Candice, so why let it bother you now?”

She absorbed that with an angry toss of her thick blond hair.

He gave her a sidelong glance and couldn’t help the smile or the light in his eyes. “What do you care, anyway,
ish’tia’nay?”
His tone was soft and teasing.

Her hands flew to her hips. “I don’t care, Mr. Savage, believe me I don’t.”

He clasped her shoulder before she could turn her back on him. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

Her mouth dropped a foot. “Me! Jealous! Me! Candice Carter?” She laughed incredulously.

He grinned. His forefinger touched her chin. “’Fess up, sweetheart. I won’t tell a soul.”

She gave him a black glance. “There’s absolutely nothing to ’
fess
up!”

“No?” He chuckled. “Then why have your blue eyes turned black—sweetheart?”

She gave him a murderous look, crossing her arms over her breasts. His smile widened. He liked the way that posture crushed and lifted her bosom. She grew crimson. “How you could possibly think that I am jealous of some squaw …” she sputtered.

His laughter died.

“I’ve never been jealous a day in my life,” Candice lied furiously, “and certainly not of some squaw!”

A long silence followed her statement, and when Jack finally spoke, his voice was very low and controlled. “How many prejudiced bones are there, Miss Candice,” he said, “in that deceivingly beautiful body of yours?”

“Why shouldn’t I be prejudiced?” She snapped. “Apaches are savages—they rape and kill and scalp women and children.”

“Apaches don’t harm women or children.”

“No?” She taunted. “No, Jack? I suppose you’re going to tell me that Hayilkah didn’t
harm
me?”

He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look in his eyes. “What?”

“You heard!”

He pulled her very close. “I know Hayilkah didn’t rape you—so just what are you accusing him of?”

She grew red and flustered. His eyes pinned her, his body tensed with foreboding.

“He did rape me,” Candice cried out. “But it was with his hands!”

Jack seemed taken aback for a moment, his eyes narrowing.

“He was only examining you.”

Candice laughed again, a hard, brittle sound. “He was getting pleasure, and you can’t tell me he wasn’t—not when he spilled his seed all over my thighs.”

Jack didn’t move, or even breathe, for a beat. He could very vividly picture Hayilkah with his fingers in Candice, then losing control and coming. The anger he felt was so deep it was completely calm and quiet. He realized Candice was triumphant
and waiting for his reaction. He also realized that one day he would kill Hayilkah, and he turned to her slowly. “He’s not the first man to fose control around you, is he, Candice?” His words were soft and mocking, the innuendo clear.

She flushed. “You’re a savage just like they are, aren’t you, Jack?” She spit the words at him. “When you capture a white woman, is that how you
examine
her too?”

There was no point in answering her. “Let’s go,” he said. “You’re going to help Luz with the meal.”

“Did you examine me when you found me—when I was unconscious?” she persisted.

“I saved your ungrateful neck, and you know it.”

“You kissed me in the barn!” It was an accusation. Tears filled her eyes.

“I guess I’m human after all,” he said bitterly. He felt a terrible defeat—how could he have thought for an instant that she was jealous? He supposed she was used to being the sole object of a man’s attentions, that her pride was piqued—hadn’t she as much as said so? And why in hell did he care what she thought—why in hell did he want her goddamn approval so much?

She wouldn’t stop. “How many white women have you captured, Jack? Captured and forced? Or am I the only one?”

“You enjoyed that kiss.”

“No, I didn’t!”

They stared at each other.

“I saw it with my own eyes once,” Candice said. “A scalped little boy who couldn’t have been more than ten years old. How much proof do I have to throw in your face before you admit what you are?”

“What I am is a man,” he said tersely. “And maybe if you didn’t sashay around me like you do, it wouldn’t have happened. You can lie to me and you can lie to yourself, but we both know the truth is that you’ve been itching for me to kiss you since the day you first laid eyes on me.”

“That’s
not
true!”

“As for the boy—if an Apache did it, he was a renegade. As a rule, we don’t harm women and children. Take a good look around you. There are a couple of women in this camp who are not Apache—who are married to Apache warriors
and have their children. There’s also a little Mexican boy who was adopted by one family seven years ago. Just take a good look around you, Candice.” He paused, giving her a scathing look. “All Indians aren’t the same.”

“If you’re trying to tell me that Apaches aren’t bloodthirsty killers, then I don’t believe you. And not just from the stories. When they captured me there was another prisoner, a vaquero. They tortured him. I heard his screams. She shuddered.

“He tortured the young warrior we found, who died. He was captured and brought back here to be tortured and killed in return. Even your God says ‘an eye for an eye.’
We do
kill, we do torture—we do rape, and we do scalp. But
only
in retaliation.” He looked at her, and she felt something race down her spine. “If Luz was captured by one of the ranchers and raped and killed, Shozkay would take that man’s wife, or his daughter, or his sister, and he’d rape her, then kill her.”

She stared. Her heart was beating way too fast. She knew she shouldn’t provoke him. She found her voice. “And you? If someone raped and killed your woman—what would you do? Would you find his woman and rape and kill her?”

He met her gaze calmly, but with steel. “Yes.”

When Jack left her with Luz, who was on her knees surrounded by woven mats and rectangular cakes, Candice was still in a state of both shock and anger. Candice felt sick. He was a warrior—he had killed. How many innocent white people had fallen beneath his rifle and his knife? Had he really raped, scalped, and tortured in retribution, in vengeance? And she knew the answer.

It’s impossible, one part of her mind cried.

Free yourself from him, he’s Apache, she answered back.

It was a relief to turn her attention away from the man who was her new captor, and from his chilling words. “What are you doing?” she asked Luz.

The Apache woman flashed her a warm smile. “Come, look,” she invited. She was carefully packing the rectangular cakes in the woven mats.

“What are they?”

Luz smiled and handed her a cake. Candice bit into it,
prepared for the worst, but found it pleasant, almost sweet. “This is pretty good.”

“It is made from mescal. From a part—I do not know the name in your words.” She held her hands into a rounded shape.

“The tuber?” Candice said.

Luz nodded. “We grind it, bake it. We eat them later, maybe in the winter, if it is bad.” She smiled.

“Can I help?” Candice said the words before she had even thought them. Luz was pleased, and Candice watched her carefully, imitating the squaw’s actions precisely.

A few minutes later Luz smiled. “You are a good squaw.”

Candice actually smiled back. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Jack. She needed answers, lots of answers.

“Luz,” she said cautiously, after she had regained control, “is Datiye Niño Salvaje
^’s
mistress?’

Luz stopped what she was doing to look at her. “I do not know that word.”

“His woman.”

“Ah, I see.” The woman was silent, and Candice felt sick with dread, for she could see her thinking about what to say.

“She is!” Candice cried, horrified.

“No, Sun Woman, not anymore. Once they did share a bed of hides, but that was long ago.”

“She was his mis—his woman?”

“Many summers ago.”

Candice clenched her fists. She had suspected, but now it was confirmed. She shouldn’t care, but she did.
What is happening to me?

The men appeared a few hours later, as if by magic, just when the thick stew was simmering perfectly. They went inside Luz and Shozkay’s
gohwah
to eat. Candice couldn’t look at Jack. But she was very much aware of his presence. She sat very still, watching Shozkay smile warmly at Luz while Luz served him. Then he sat down next to her, speaking in Apache. Luz laughed, flashed him a brilliant smile, and handed him a bowl. Candice still didn’t move. Jack was standing behind her, so close she could feel his body heat. He murmured his thanks to Luz, then squatted down beside Candice, one warm, callused hand going to the nape of her
neck beneath her braid. That was all, one touch, no words, but it conveyed too much—everything.

Later, the instant they were out of the
gohwah
, Candice turned to him as casually as she could. “Luz told me.”

“What?”

Her casual air disappeared. “About Datiye. She was your mistress. Luz told me and I know she’s not a liar.”

Jack grimaced slightly. “That’s all in the past.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.” He sighed. “Datiye was my wife. But that was years ago—”

“What!” She gasped, stunned.

He looked grim. “I said ‘was.’ We were married. It was my duty. We’re divorced.”

Her heart was beating wildly, and she could barely hear what he was saying. “You loved her.”

“No,” he said. “No, I never loved her.”

“But … then … why?” Jack and Datiye had been man and wife. Man and wife … it was all she could think of.

“I was married to her sister. She died. It was my duty to marry Datiye. It’s our way.” He shrugged.

Candice stared. He had been married twice? Why was she so numb? A coherent thought managed to intrude. “Your first wife. Did you love her?”

Jack hesitated. He did not want to talk about this with Candice.

“I see,” Candice said, biting her lip. There was no mistaking his hesitation, or the guarded look that had crossed his face, closing his expression. “Did you choose to marry your first wife? Did you love her?”

Jack’s mouth tightened. “You don’t give an inch.” He stood. “We were very young. But yes, I did love her.” He shrugged. “What does it matter? She’s dead. That was a long, long time ago. Eight years, in fact.”

I did love her
. The words were a blow. Candice gave him her back and pushed through the hide flap-door. Inside, it was dark. She sank down onto the bed of hides and began massaging her aching feet. He had loved his first wife. He had been married twice.

She heard him enter and purposefully ignored him, her
eyes on her hands as she rubbed her feet. A short while later a small fire blazed, casting a dim, flickering light. She felt his eyes on her and looked up to see him staring down at her. Suddenly the
gohwah
seemed too small for the two of them, and the long night was here.

“Let me do that,” Jack said, kneeling and taking her foot in his hands before she could object.

“I don’t think …”

His hands were large, warm, and gentle. “Stop thinking, Candice. There’s no point. What is, is.”

He was right. She was there and she had no choice. This man had traded for her, and she belonged to him. She was at his mercy, and probing into his past wasn’t going to change anything—except make him angry. And having glimpsed his anger a few times, she would rather not arouse it.

“Feel better?” he asked, his voice husky.

She had heard that tone before, and she looked up abruptly. She had seen that too-bright light in his eyes too. His hand had stilled on her ankle. Her body began a slow throbbing of fear mingled with anticipation. He slid his hand up her calf, its grip tightening possessively.

“You have the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen,” he murmured.

Her heart was beating erratically. “I … I …”

His hand moved up her thigh, slowly, moving higher and higher, and Candice’s groin was flooded with a hot, hot ache. Oh, dear, she thought, oh, God, what is he going to do?

His hand didn’t stop. It kept creeping upward until it had reached her inner thigh. She stared—from his hand, which had pushed up her dress, to his hard, sinewy arm, to his naked chest with the gleaming necklace, to his face, which was gazing steadily at her thigh. She saw the tension there, etched clearly across the sensual mouth and high cheekbones, pinching the nostrils of the straight, classic nose. His hand moved once, closing on her flesh, and she exhaled, closing her eyes. A little higher and he would touch her and she would let him.