Comanche Heart

by Catherine Anderson

  He laughed softly. “I’d offer to go get your clothes, but I like you this way.”

  Amy shot a nervous glance toward the dark hallway, which seemed horribly distant. Swift sat up, apparently at ease with his nudity. With a splendid show of rippling muscle, he leaned forward, reaching for his pants. She studied the play of tendon in his back as he moved, fascinated by the way his burnished flesh bulged into steely knots, then relaxed. He rose, affording her a full view of tendon-roped buttocks and corded thighs as he pulled his pants on. The jangle of his belt buckle sounded, the band of leather snapping taut around his lean hips. He retrieved his socks and boots, then sat beside her to put them on.

  When finished, he turned his dark head to regard her, his twinkling gaze shifting to the shirt she clutched to her breasts. “Can I talk you out of a smoke?” he asked.

  Amy swallowed, horrified at the thought of handing his shirt over, which would leave her naked. He fell back on an elbow and skimmed his hand over the denim, his fingers searching for the pocket that held his tobacco pouch. The pocket in question lay over her right breast, outside in. He dived his hand under the shirt collar, his palm rasping down her chest, then fumbling about as he tried to wrest his tobacco pouch free. The unintentional touches on her breast sent her senses spinning.

  Suddenly his hand stilled. His gaze met hers. His white teeth flashed in a rakish grin. Abandoning his quest inside the shirt pocket, he curled his warm fingers around her. “To hell with a smoke,” he whispered huskily.

  With that, he kissed her. And within seconds Amy found herself losing her grip on the shield of denim, losing her grip on everything. As her senses reeled under his expert coaxing, she dimly recorded the whimpering sounds she was making and realized, vaguely, that Swift had a power over her that she had never allowed anyone else, an enslaving, controlling power that she was helpless to resist, didn’t want to resist. She responded to every touch of his hands, every unvoiced command, moaning because surrender would bring ecstasy, ecstasy rapture, and rapture mindlessness. His hands gliding over her body reduced her to a quivering, thoughtless, throbbing puddle of longing, and she eddied dizzily under his light caresses, writhing, arching upward, wanting his fingertips to set her afire as they had earlier.

  In a haze of passion, she felt the featherlight gentleness leave him, replaced by a feverish, harsh urgency. The touch of his hands became relentless, his fingers pressing deep into her flesh, staking claim. When he clamped a palm over the now throbbing apex of her thighs, grinding the heel of his hand against her, jolts of sheer sensation ripped through her. His breathing echoed in her head, ragged and quick, the sound of a man burning with need.

  When he dragged her hips beneath him, Amy realized he meant to take her quickly. No ecstasy; no mindlessness. For an instant, fear lashed her. He jerked open his belt buckle, unfastened his pants. She felt the steely length of his manhood, thrusting and hot against her thigh, seeking entry. Before she could register that completely, he found her and drove into her, hard. She gasped, her belly convulsing, her insides twisting and clasping. His arms encircled her, snapping taut, almost hurting in their possession of her.

  He withdrew and thrust forward, unleashing the power in his body, the impact jarring through her, and him, his invasion deep and fierce. Then, with no preamble, he set a pace, the rhythm furious this time and merciless. She tensed, expecting pain. Instead the rhythm consumed her. She responded instinctively, tucking her legs around his thighs and arching to meet him, increasing the impact, glorying in the slamming bursts of fire that erupted through her, setting her middle aflame, turning it molten.

  He was power and might, she the vanquished. Pride and dignity eluded her. She surrendered to the force, rose to absorb it, whimpering as his need became her own, a burning, insatiable need that drove her upward, onward, turning white hot, blinding her. Just as she peaked, Swift froze above her, his face twisting, his shoulders shuddering, his arms in spasms. Then she felt the fire in him erupt into her, a wave of breathtaking heat that rushed and broke, intensifying hers.

  With a groan he resumed the pace, slowly at first, his face a sheen of satisfaction, his gaze holding hers as he increased tempo. In the back of her mind, Amy realized he meant to watch her as he thrust her over the edge, but she had come too far to resist, her body more his now than hers. A smile touched his mouth. She saw it, registered it, and then lost contact with reality as his thrusts pushed her past caring.

  She heard him whispering to her, urging her on. With a cry she clutched his shoulders, clinging, gasping for breath, her hips arching up to meet him as the climax came. Like Swift, she fell victim to shuddering, convulsive spasms.

  When she lay quivering and spent beneath him, he gathered her close, his hot mouth pressing kisses to her breasts, her throat, her face. Exhausted, Amy turned into his embrace, limp and boneless. He held her, stroking a hand from her bottom to her shoulders until sleep stole over her, a deep, mindless, dreamless sleep, her body enveloped by the warmth of him.

  Amy woke up to find herself surrounded by darkness. She recognized the softness of her down mattress beneath her. Something warm and damp skimmed her legs. She blinked and stiffened, straining to see.

  “Swift?”

  He laughed low in his chest. “Who do you think?”

  “Wh-what are you doing?” she squeaked, frustrated by the blackness and the familiarity of his hands on her person.

  The cloth skimmed up her thigh. “I’m bathing you. I promised, remember? Not a trace of apple when I finished.”

  She heard a wet plop as he discarded the rag. The covers snapped as he brought them fluttering down over her. His weight sank onto the mattress beside her. The next instant his arm came around her, the sleeve of his shirt abrasive on her waist, his palm leathery on her back.

  “I have to leave, golden one. In a couple more hours it’ll be dawn, and if anyone sees me sneaking out of here, your reputation will be shot to hell.”

  Amy could feel his breath on her cheek, the heat of him, but all she could make out of him visually was a blackness before her that was blacker than the night. She made fists in his shirt, suddenly and inexplicably frightened. Once he left, reality might come back between them. She wanted to hold this night close, keep it forever.

  “I—I don’t want you to go. We’re married now, aren’t we? Why must you leave?”

  His lips grazed hers. “Amy, love, Comanche law doesn’t mean squat to the people here. If I stay before we’re married their way, they’ll look at you as a fallen woman.” There was a smile in his voice. “I think we need to find a priest—quick.”

  “He won’t come back here for weeks!”

  His tongue touched hers, and he groaned. “Weeks?”

  “Weeks,” she repeated, hopelessness filling her. “I don’t want to wait for weeks. Do you? I want you to stay with me now. A Comanche marriage is good enough. It’s everything.”

  The panic in her voice was unmistakable. Swift drew back to study her shadowed face. “Amy, love, what’s wrong?”

  “I—I just don’t want you to go. I have this horrid feeling that once you do, tonight won’t ever have happened.”

  He ran a hand into her hair. Though he had experienced the same feelings himself, Swift knew by the sound of her voice that he hadn’t felt her panic. “Honey, that’s crazy.”

  “I don’t care. It’s how I feel. If you leave, something might happen. You might never come back.”

  “I’ll be back,” he said in a teasing, husky whisper, but as he spoke, the words rang in his head, an echo from the past. Suddenly he understood. Once before they had loved one another—innocently, but just as passionately—and his promises had become dust in a Texas wind. Now, at last, they had reclaimed that feeling of togetherness, and Amy was terrified of it being torn away from her. Swift’s heart broke a little as he lay down and drew her close. “Amy, listen to me. Nothing will ever keep us apart again. Nothing. I won’t allow it. Besides, I’m just going up the street. It
’s within hollering distance.”

  She pressed close, burying her face against his neck. “It seems like a hundred miles.”

  Swift sighed. “I don’t want you to lose your job. I know you need that security, at least for a while.”

  “I need you more.”

  “You can have both. We’re married now, Amy. You know it; I know it. Nothing and no one can change that.” He tucked in his chin to press a kiss atop her head, loving the feel of her silken hair, heavy against his shirt. “And with marriage comes all the things you fear. For the first year or so, while you’re walking a circle around me and learning what I’m like when—”

  “I don’t care about that now.” Even as she spoke, Amy knew she was suffering from momentary madness. Later on she would care. There was no getting around that. Henry Masters had left his mark, whether she could admit it right now or not.

  Swift closed his eyes, knowing that the scars within her ran too deep to pretend they were healed by one night of lovemaking. He wished that could be, but wishing would never make it so.

  “I do care,” he whispered, his voice gravelly. He drew her up onto his chest and released his hold on her to catch her face between his hands. “If you lose that job, you’ll be dependent on me for everything. Sooner or later that’s going to eat at you.”

  “But—” Amy broke off, despising herself because what he said was true.

  He slanted a finger across her mouth. “No buts. You don’t have to give up everything to be my wife, Amy. We can go on like we have been until the priest comes. I’ll be here every night, for lessons. And maybe I’ll stay some nights until right before dawn. Nothing’s going to separate us again. I swear it.”

  Amy let him leave with no further argument. Long after his departure, she lay shivering in her lonely bed, wishing he were there beside her, hating herself because her weakness had held them apart for so long and now it still held them apart.

  After school the following day, Amy went by Loretta’s for her usual brief visit. To her surprise, both Swift and Hunter were at the house when she walked in. Taken off guard, Amy closed the door, then stood there, uncertain how to greet Swift after their night together.

  “Ah, Amy, you’re just in time for hot blackberry cobbler!” Loretta exclaimed.

  “Th-that sounds wonderful,” Amy said weakly, her mind filled with thoughts of apple pie. When she had gotten up this morning, she hadn’t found a trace of the mess in her kitchen. Swift had cleaned it up while she slept.

  Her gaze collided with his. Memories of their lovemaking spun through her head. She dropped her gaze, groping for her poise, but everything about him reminded her, even his shirt, which only a few short hours ago had lain against her bare breasts.

  Swift saw the flush as it started up Amy’s neck, and to call it crimson would have been understatement. It flooded her face, inching to her hairline, so obvious that he knew Hunter and Loretta couldn’t fail to notice. Tender amusement warmed him, and he bit back a smile. Sweet, precious Amy in her schoolmarm dress, with her glorious hair wound in a prim coronet about her head. To her, their lovemaking last night had been scandalous.

  The smile inside him became an ache in his throat as he recalled how tame their joining had actually been. She’d bust her seams when he made real love to her. And if she blushed like this afterward, everyone in town would know what she’d been up to.

  Trying to pretend nothing was amiss, Swift rubbed his hands together. “Well, dish that cobbler up, Loretta. I’m so hungry my legs feel hollow.”

  The attempt at joviality fell flat. Loretta stood frozen, staring at Amy, who was turning a brighter red by the second. Hunter, instead of staring at Amy, had turned his dark blue gaze on Swift, one eyebrow arched in question. When Swift made eye contact with him, Hunter’s mouth quirked. He glanced at Amy.

  “Amy, love, is something wrong?” Loretta asked.

  Amy’s eyes seemed to grow larger than the pie plates sitting on the table, startling splashes of blue in contrast with her flushed face. Swift nearly groaned. “N-no, nothing,” she squeaked, which was clearly the biggest untruth she had ever uttered. “Wh-why do you ask?”

  Loretta threw a glance at Hunter. Amy turned pleading eyes to Swift. To his horror, he felt his neck getting hot, and then the heat spread to his face. Damned if he wasn’t blushing. He cleared his throat and raked a hand through his hair, as embarrassed as if he had just been caught tumbling Amy in the hayloft. Hunter, grinning like an ass, turned his attention to the cobbler and picked up the server.

  “Well, if nothing’s wrong, come on in,” he said, darting another knowing look at Swift.

  Amy swept off her shawl and hung it on the rack. Approaching the table, she wiped her hands on her skirts, looking so painfully guilty that anyone save a fool could guess why. Loretta’s blue eyes slid from her cousin to Swift. And then, as if a contagious disease had infiltrated the household, Loretta’s face turned a comely pink. Only Hunter seemed immune. Still grinning, he served four dishes of cobbler, motioning for everyone to take a seat at the table.

  All four of them filled their mouths immediately. Swift made an appreciative noise and took a second bite. Loretta, clearly uncomfortable with the lack of pleasantries, glanced up from her plate. “How did those apples I gave you bake up?”

  Swift, in the process of swallowing, choked. Everyone, including Amy, turned to watch while he struggled to get his breath. When at last he swallowed and chased the cobbler down with a sip of hot coffee, he managed a shaky, “Excuse me.” Amy began blushing all over again. Hunter’s grin broadened. Loretta looked totally nonplussed.

  Hunter met Swift’s gaze. “Are you going to survive that cobbler?”

  “It isn’t Loretta’s cobbler.” Swift took another gulp of coffee. “I’m fine. Just went down the wrong pipe, I guess.”

  Amy bent her head and attacked the berries on her plate as if she had just declared war. Hunter cleared his throat. “Swift and I stopped by to see Peter on the way home, Amy.”

  She glanced up, her eyes darkening, her high color fading, “Did you? And how is he?”

  “Fine. I think Swift’s little talk with Abe did some good. At least he didn’t go home and raise thunder yesterday, like he might have before.”

  “Is Peter’s mother keeping him in bed?”

  “And fussing over him like a mother hen,” Hunter amplified. Meeting Amy’s gaze, he asked, “Why did you never come to me about Peter’s problem? As far as I knew, the only time Abe got out of line was back when his wife had him jailed. I had no idea he made a habit of getting drunk and going home mean.”

  Amy felt her cheeks growing warm again. “I—” Hunter’s gaze gave her no quarter. She shrugged. “If I had come to you, you would have confronted Abe, and I was afraid you’d get into trouble.”

  Hunter’s jaw rippled, “It’s good Indigo has more faith in my judgment. An ornery man is one thing. Abe Crenton has gone far beyond that. It is not the way of the People to turn away when a man abuses his wife and family. You knew that, Amy.”

  Amy had witnessed Hunter’s mild reproofs hundreds of times when they were directed at his children, but never before had she been a target. For years she had watched him turn those luminous eyes of his on Indigo or Chase, reducing them to heartfelt remorse without even raising his voice. She had often wondered how he managed that. Now she knew. Hunter, in his kind way, struck much deeper than the flesh; the wounded look in his eyes lashed her heart.

  “I meant well,” she said lamely.

  His gaze held hers, and without words he spoke with eloquence.

  “If it happens again, I’ll come to you,” Amy promised.

  Hunter’s gaze slid to Swift. “If Abe does harm again, take your concerns to your husband. It was his strong arm that defended Alice Crenton and her children yesterday.”

  Hunter’s reference to Swift as her husband meant that he knew what had transpired between her and Swift last night. But before Amy could react to that, Hunter reac
hed out and grasped her hand, in much the same way that Father O’Grady touched her forehead when he gave her absolution. A feeling of peace spread through her, warm and comforting.

  For a fleeting instant Amy wished she had grown up with the Comanches, that she had been raised, not by Henry Masters, but by Hunter’s father, Many Horses, that she could have basked in love and been reprimanded, not with fist or strap, as had been Henry’s way, but with goodness and understanding.

  Unlike Amy, Loretta’s children didn’t know fear; they ran wild and free, holding their heads high with pride. Yet, somehow, despite his gentle ways, Hunter ruled his household, instilling in his children all those virtues he deemed important, loyalty, honesty, pride, and courage. Never did he stress obedience, yet it came, naturally and effortlessly, because Hunter’s children loved him far too fiercely to displease him.

  Amy’s gaze shifted from Hunter to Swift, who seemed absorbed in eating his cobbler, as did Loretta. Their seeming indifference was yet another custom of the People; one’s shame was his own, and others did not look upon it. Amy glanced back at Hunter to discover that he had picked up his fork, her transgressions already relegated to yesterday.

  As if he sensed the moment of chastisement had passed, Swift glanced up and looked straight into her eyes, his own twinkling. An unbidden smile touched her mouth. Unlike her, Swift had been raised Comanche, and Hunter’s ways were his as well. She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be the kind of father Hunter was, unaffected by the noisy chaos in his home, offering direction only when he witnessed a serious transgression, his manner gentle, the reprimand a softly spoken word.

  “I wonder where Indigo went after school this time,” Loretta remarked. “I expected her home before now.”

  Hunter lifted his head. “She will come.”

  “I’ll bet she’s with that Marshall fellow. He’s too old for her, by half. But will she listen to me?”

  Amy interrupted to tell them about her confrontation with Indigo the previous afternoon. “I meant to talk with her again later, but the situation with Peter cropped up and I got so caught up in it that I forgot.”