“Thank God—” she began, only to feel his hand clamped firmly over her lips.
Without a sound he pushed her flat on her back in the grass and followed her down. He yanked on War Shield’s reins as they fell. The stalwart horse folded his legs and rolled to his side next to them. His deep chest heaved with exhaustion.
Blade lay across Theodora and shielded her with his body. Trapped by his bulk, her hands pinned between their chests, she twisted and turned in an effort to free her mouth.
“Be quiet,” he warned softly in her ear. “Don’t make a sound.”
Chapter 14
Confused and frustrated, Theodora lay on her back and looked up at Blade, but he wasn’t paying any attention to her. He was listening to something on the plain above them. Over the noise of the buffalo came a blood-chilling cry. A second howl pierced the din, and she understood at last what was happening.
At the ghastly sound of the hunting cries, she grew as still as a trapped jackrabbit beneath Blade’s muscular body. He seemed to sense her sudden acquiescence and withdrew his hand from her lips without even glancing down at her. When he braced himself on his elbows and moved aside a fraction, the pressure on her ribs eased. She pulled her hands out from under his hard chest, rested them on his shoulders, sucked in air, and prayed she wouldn’t start to choke on the dust.
“Gros Ventres.”
The whispered words filled her with terror. Frantic, she stared up at him. Images of the trooper’s mutilated body as Fletcher had described it sprang to mind; she gagged in panic and clutched at the long fringes on Blade’s shirt. His gaze flew to hers. His calm eyes conveyed a silent message of reassurance. He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, then without a word released it and pulled away to load the rifle he’d jerked from its scabbard. They lay on the ravine’s incline side by side, her buckskin skirt caught under his hips, and listened to the herd gallop around them. At last it was quiet.
Blade eased his head above the embankment, then slid back down.
“Are they gone?” she asked in a broken whisper.
“For now. But they’ll be back to butcher their kill.” He stood and War Shield rose with him. Reaching down, he pulled her to her feet. He ran his hands over her quickly, checking for injuries. “Can you keep going?” he asked. “We can’t stay here.”
She nodded. “Yes, I feel fine.”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
Trailed by his gray stallion, Blade crouched down and led Theodora by the hand. They cautiously worked their way along the ravine in the opposite direction of the scattered buffalo carcasses. The light was fading as they crept from the ditch. He lifted her up on War Shield and then mounted behind her. “We’ll ride for a while,” he told her, as he encircled her with his arms. “But slowly and quietly.”
They rode the big horse at a walk until it was almost dark, the only sound the clip-clop of its hooves on the hard-packed ground. In terror, Theodora strained to hear any noise that would indicate they were being followed.
Then from behind them in the distance the wail of a solitary war whoop pierced the twilight’s calm.
She stiffened and clutched Blade’s wrist. “What’s that?” she cried.
He answered softly, his head so close that the hoop in his ear touched her cheek. The nonchalance in his calm voice slowed the panic building in her chest. “They’ve found our sign. But they won’t be able to follow it till daylight.”
Blade rode into a wooded coulee with a tiny stream running its length. Bright yellow goldenrod spread along both banks, still visible though masses of nimbus clouds overhead promised a moonless night.
“We can rest here. I want to take a look at your legs before the light’s completely gone.”
Their entry into the haven of cottonwoods disturbed a flock of grouse, who’d come for their evening drink. The agitated birds fluttered at their approach, reluctant to leave the water. Blade dismounted and reached up for her. His hands spanned her waist as he lifted her down and set her on her feet. Before she could say a word, he raised one side of her leather skirt with both hands, and at her sudden shocked intake of breath his determined gaze locked with hers for a fleeting second before moving with deliberation down the pantaloon on her thigh to her calf encased in her riding boot.
“You can’t—“Theodora stopped short as she looked down at herself in bewilderment. A neat slice had been cut through her right boot at mid-calf by a buffalo horn. She hadn’t even felt it happen. At Blade’s direction she sat down on a large, flat rock.
He squatted on his haunches in front of her. Worry etched a deep crease between his dark eyebrows, and his firm mouth was taut with apprehension. He eased the boot off with cautious fingers and rolled down the gray woolen sock.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” he said with open relief after he’d examined the wound. “Just a graze. The leather of your boot plus the thickness of your sock saved you from a deeper cut. Now let me see your other leg.”
Astonished, Theodora looked at her left boot. It was crisscrossed with similar cuts. Miraculously, when Blade removed it and stripped away her sock, they found she had only three superficial lacerations.
He grinned up at her, his eyes alight with teasing admiration. “Your boots are a loss, but it’s a small price to pay to protect those gorgeous legs. I’d gladly meet the cost of another pair for a second peek.”
In spite of herself, Theodora smiled at his rakish attempt to comfort her. “I didn’t feel a thing when it happened,” she replied, suddenly aware of his callused fingers on her skin. Her bare leg rested in his cupped palm, and she removed it in an effort to restore order to her suddenly confused thoughts. “All I could think about was hanging on for dear life,” she added in a blatant attempt to redirect the conversation.
Blade placed his hands on his knees, a provocative smile on his deeply tanned face. “Well, you did that like a trooper.” He stood, eased down beside her on the boulder, and ran his fingers lightly across his outer right thigh. Blood soaked his buckskin trousers. He lifted the soft leather away from the wound with the point of his knife in an attempt to survey the extent of the injury. The cut was above his riding boot and much deeper than Theodora’s.
“You’re badly hurt,” she exclaimed. She jumped up and tried to examine his leg.
He brushed her hand aside. “It’s nothing. Just a small gash. We’re both lucky to come out of that stampede without being sliced to ribbons. I have a flask of whiskey in my saddlebag. I’ll get it and pour a little on these cuts.”
As he started to rise, Theodora tried to push him back down with both hands on his broad shoulders. He quirked an eyebrow, shrugged, and remained seated.
“You stay there. I’ll get it,” she told him. She padded across the grass on bare feet and removed the flask from his bag. She returned and knelt beside him. The slash on his thigh was deep and jagged, and she cringed at the thought of the alcohol burning into the open flesh. Her words were softened with commiseration for the added pain she was about to inflict. “I’ll pour it directly over the wound if you think you can hold still.”
His voice was tinged with amusement. “I wouldn’t dream of moving a muscle with such a beautiful nursemaid beside me.”
She stared with surprise into jet eyes sparkling with laughter. How could he flirt at a time like this? They had just narrowly escaped death, and he was as cocky as a cavalry officer dallying with a Southern belle.
Deftly, Blade cut away the buckskin pant leg below the wound. Then he pulled a cheroot from his shirt and lit it. He exhaled the smoke with a long sigh of appreciation, and the spicy aroma swirled about her head. “I’m ready,” he quipped with insouciance. “Do your darndest.”
True to his word, Blade didn’t move while she poured the alcohol over the deep cut. He seemed oblivious to the pain, for he watched her face rather than her trembling hands as she ministered to his wound. She kept her eyes lowered and hoped he wasn’t recalling, as she was, the time he’d found h
er lost on the prairie.
For days after Tom’s death, she’d forgotten completely that the audacious captain had unbuttoned her dress and caressed her in such an intimate way. It was as though the memory of that terrible day had been blocked out in self-preservation, for it had been that same day that Tom had fallen deathly ill. But with Blade’s close proximity and the marvelous scent of his tobacco smoke to taunt her, the events of her rescue and subsequent apology were now as clearly in her mind as if it had been only yesterday. A blush warmed her cheeks. Rising, she stood back and surveyed his sinewy thigh. “Should we tie a tourniquet on your leg?” she questioned, and forced herself to meet his probing gaze.
“No, the bleeding’s stopped.”
“At least let me put a bandage on it.”
In the stampede one sleeve of her cotton blouse had torn away at the seam. It drooped over her bare shoulder, hanging by a few threads. She ripped it loose and slid it down over her wrist. After tearing it into strips, she wound the cotton material around his injured thigh and tied it securely.
Blade jabbed the cigar into his mouth, stood, and took the bottle from her tight grasp. “Let’s get your cuts taken care of and get out of here.” But while he was dabbing the whiskey on Theodora’s calves, another war howl pierced the stillness. “Get down,” Blade ordered. Without ceremony, he shoved her onto her stomach under him. He grabbed the rifle propped on the rock at his side. The barrel touched her cheek and she tried to jerk her head away from the hard, cold metal.
He paid no attention to her, concentrating instead on the sounds around them. “Dammit,” he said in a low voice. “I didn’t think they’d track us so far before dark. We’re going to have to sit this one out real quiet. With the cloud cover they shouldn’t find us tonight, at any rate.”
The hours stretched on in silence. The fugitives spoke in whispers and only when necessary. They drank quietly from the stream, flattening themselves along its shallow bank like forest animals. Blade eased off War Shield’s saddle and blanket and made a bed for Theodora. He helped her pull her socks and ruined boots back on. Instead of replacing his own slashed boots, he stowed them with his gear and drew on a pair of moccasins. Then he cut off his other pant leg to match the first.
They couldn’t chance a fire, but chewed on jerky from his saddlebag. The night was cool for July, and when a misty rain fell, Blade took his long cape and pulled it over their shoulders. They sat on his bedroll, huddled together for warmth.
Wisps of fog drifted around them, thicker and thicker, until it seemed they were the only ones alive on the earth, so isolated were they in the silence. At last in the early morning hours, Theodora fell asleep, her head resting on his good leg.
She awoke to the soft call of her name. At the recollection of where she was, she jerked upright. Blade had slipped her head onto his bedroll and covered her with his cape. He stood beside War Shield now, fastening the saddle girth. It was sunrise, but though daylight had come, they were still surrounded by unpenetrable fog.
“Did you sleep?” she asked him softly, abashed at the possibility that they might have been lying side by side like husband and wife.
He glanced at her. “No, I thought one of us had better stay awake in case we had company.” Though his words were unemotional, he seemed to read her thoughts, and his eyes twinkled.
Through the mist came the monotonous, plaintive call of a bird. Theodora cocked her head and placed a finger to her lips. “Listen,” she whispered. “A Fringilla querula .”
Blade met her delighted look with a scowl. “Sounds like it, doesn’t it?”
His tone was so noncommittal she wondered at his inability to identify such a distinctive wail as the mourning sparrow’s. A second one answered its call, and Blade stared in its direction, as if trying to pierce the white shroud that enveloped them.
He came to stand beside her, then bent and spoke softly in her ear. “Theodora, I’m going to reconnoiter our position. While I’m gone I want you to remain absolutely still and silent. Do you understand? No matter what happens, no matter what you hear, don’t move and don’t make a sound.”
“No sir!” she hissed. “You can’t leave me here alone!” She grabbed his arm with panic-stricken tenacity. “I’m coming with you.”
Blade pried her hands off and held her in front of him. “You’ll stay here and you’ll follow orders,” he responded tersely. “If we’re surrounded, as I think we are, your ability to keep quiet may save our lives.”
Recognizing the absolute finality in his voice, Theodora nodded. Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach, but a cold, detached calm enveloped her. The first thing she’d learned about the captain was that he expected his orders to be obeyed without question. The second was that his orders were usually right.
He tied War Shield to a nearby bush, rechecked his loaded carbine, and disappeared into the fog.
For long moments after he’d left, she stood by the stream, alone and paralyzed with fear. With Blade gone, she felt abandoned. Belatedly, she realized he hadn’t even left her his knife. The mournful wails of the sparrows continued, interspersed with the melodic notes of bobolinks and the caws of ravens. The birds seemed to be talking to one another, coming ever closer; just as suddenly, they began moving away.
She stared into the mist, unable to see anything. Then out of the fog stepped an Indian warrior. For a brief second their gazes met. The cold-blooded ferocity in the savage’s eyes pinned her to the spot. She started to scream, but remembered Blade’s orders. Clasping her hand to her throat, she sank to the grassy bank on buckling knees.
The Gros Ventre was naked except for breechclout and moccasins. He held a tomahawk in one hand and a war shield in the other. With the cunning of a wild predator, he crouched and searched the mist for her protector. When he realized she was alone, he smiled and looked from her to the great stallion tied nearby, as though unable to judge which was the finer prize. At the sight of the intruder, War Shield snorted and danced about; he jerked his head up and down against the tether and whinnied a warning.
Just take the horse and go, Theodora begged in silence.
The brave stepped toward her. She could see his decorated shield of buffalo hide clearly. Its upper part was blackened to represent a storm cloud pierced by lightning; the lower half carried the head and claws of a mythical bird. Summoning all her courage, she raised her face to meet his eyes. His look of ecstatic triumph kindled a rage inside her, and with it, resolution. She wasn’t going to meet death on her knees. She pushed herself up with her hands and raced for War Shield.
The Gros Ventre reached her as she touched the stallion’s bridle and yanked her back by the hair. His buffalo shield fell discarded at their feet. He held her imprisoned in front of him with one hand encasing her skull in a viselike grip. The feathered tomahawk in his other fist danced about, only inches from her face, then joined the shield on the ground.
No matter what he did, she wouldn’t cry out, she promised herself. If there were more Indians around, she wouldn’t give Blade away to them.
The brave’s waist-length hair was as dark and sleek as the otter fur that bound his side braids. Black paint was smeared on his face and chest. Incredibly, he grinned at her. He loosened his tight hold on her head and wound a lock of her hair around his hand, staring at it in curiosity. With a grunt of victory, he reached down to grab her thigh. At the feel of his questing hand beneath her skirt, Theodora shoved and twisted in a futile attempt to break free. Her breath came in short gasps, but she didn’t scream. With a flip of his hand, the Gros Ventre sent her sprawling backward across the grass and followed her down. He pinned her to the ground with one hand entwined in her long hair and thrust a knee between her thighs. Using a knife now held in his free hand, he split the side of her riding skirt.
Don’t make a sound! Don’t make a sound! Theodora chanted to herself over and over. The only noise in the mist-shrouded clearing was the ripping of the buckskin and her rasping struggle for breath. She foug
ht back with all her strength, pushing and clawing at his chest and arms. The painful hold on her hair and the weight of his hips on hers held her fast. As panic overcame her, she knew she was going to scream despite all her brave intentions. When the savage tore open the leg of her pantaloon with his knife, she opened her mouth to cry for help. There was a short, strangled grunt. The Indian was lifted off her before the scream left her throat. Without a sound his knife was pried from his fingers and hurled across the clearing. In frenzy, he tore with both hands at the muscular arm pressed against his windpipe, which relentlessly squeezed the life’s breath from him. He kicked his feet in an attempt to trip his captor, but was blocked with ease as his attacker pivoted with him. The brave’s face turned purple and hideous in his death struggle. His eyes bulged in incredulous denial, and a gurgle bubbled up from his crushed throat. His body writhed and twisted, then dangled inert from that powerful stranglehold the toes of his moccasins barely scraping the ground.
Blade tossed the body aside. Lifting Theodora, he held her with outstretched arms. In her shock she tried to pull her severed skirt together over the exposed flesh of her leg. Her blouse had lost its buttons and gaped open to reveal her lacy camisole. “Did he hurt you?” His voice was filled with an awful dread.
With lightning speed, he looked her over, checking her torso, arms, and legs before enfolding her in his strong embrace.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him. “No … n-no.” she stammered, the words catching in her throat. “He … he.”
“Theodora, did he hurt you?” He pulled her hands down and held her in front of him. His eyes searched hers, the tender concern in his gaze undeniable.
She shook her head as two tears slid down her cheeks. She stared at him in bewilderment. One moment he was an inhuman engine of death, capable of killing a man with his bare hands without hesitation. The next, he was as compassionate and gentle as her own father. She pushed aside this irreconcilable paradox. Because of him, she was still alive.
Cherish the Dream Page 22
