by tiffy
Cloth Fox sneered. ʺWe are savages. We kill enemies. Not offer softness. Spanish say one thing, do other. No honor.ʺ
Orlena turned from his bold, hostile stare, ignoring him. She looked at the quizzical expression on the gray‐haired old Apacheʹs face. ʺDo you think we are hypocritesdishonorable as the guards were?ʺ she asked Old Shoe. His fathomless black eyes studied her. ʺI know not . . . yet. Your Christian God . . .
His laws we not understand.ʺ He turned and looked across the compound at the soldiers. ʺMaybe not all Spanish understand either.ʺ
The process of removing the men from the cells and cleaning both was repeated until all ten captives had been treated. Only two others would admit to understanding Spanish, although from their gestures and expressions, Orlena was sure most of them did.
As soon as she was certain the guards would show the old priest proper respect and follow her orders in the future, Orlena departed, leaving curt instructions with the corporal of the guard. If only he knew she had far overstepped Conalʹs orders and was due for a reprimand herself! While she walked briskly back to the palace with one of the soldiers, Orlena considered the insolence and stoicism of the Apache. That they were insufferable, benighted savages she doubted not a bit. But as a child of the Enlightenment at the court of Charles III, she knew the white conquerors must not stoop to their level.
ʺI must have a bath to wash the prison stench from me. Conal will be angry enough at this morningʹs work,ʺ she muttered to herself after dismissing the soldier at the door to the palace.
Conal, indeed, was so beside himself with fury for her audacity and disobedience that he forbade her her dearest wishto watch the annual trade caravan for Chihuahua City depart the following week. It would have been the high point of her dreary existence in Santa Fe. Orlena was loathe to give up her adventure, but Señora Cruciaga watched her every move. By weekʹs end, however, she had devised a plan.
ʺWhy did I not think of it before? Oh, Santiago, it will be just as it was when I escaped from Spain. I will wear your clothes on the morrow!ʺ
Her brother looked distinctly miserable. He had taken a terrible tongue‐lashing from Conal over their misadventure in Chihuahua City. Orlenaʹs willfulness was becoming increasingly dangerous in this untamed land. He was learning to be a soldier like his father. Was it not the duty of women to sit home and remain safe?
But his sister was not like other women.
Looking at the determined set of her chin, he sighed and began to rummage through his trunks for a pair of trousers and the small clothes to go beneath one of his jackets. ʺYou must promise me that you will stay out in the plaza for no more than an hour,ʺ he called over his shoulder.
Knowing that Señora Cruciaga would discover her absence if she were not in the dining room by ten, Orlena promised. The last thing she wanted was soldiers searching for her.
Chapter 6
Orlena wended her way slowly through the plazaʹs crowded stalls, eating a tortilla dripping with hot, spicy beef and chili. As she licked her sticky fingers, she tried to emulate the careless swagger of an adolescent boy, but in the press of people it was not really necessary. No one paid any attention to a lone youth who watched the chaos of departure day. Merchants, ranchers, teamsters, and militiamen had been gathering in town for weeks with their products to be sold at the great trade fair in Chihuahua City.
She watched two cursing cargadores first put blinders on a recalcitrant mule, then carefully strap a seemingly endless number of bundles on the animalʹs back.
When the lead man had it loaded, he pulled on the cinch, placing one strong knee forcefully into the muleʹs side and yanking until he was satisfied that it was tightened enough. He then tossed the end of the strap to the man waiting on the opposite side to secure it. Two men had loaded a mule with three hundred pounds of goods in a matter of three minutes.
Orlenaʹs ears rang with curses and shouts of jubilation. The noisome smells of deer hides and raw wool blended with the pungent spiciness of pine nuts and homemade wines. How crude and provincial, how different from the cosmopolitan markets of Spain this place was! Yet it had a certain rustic vitality that made her blood race. The cool, crisp days of autumn added to her sense of excitement. Here in this primitive land, dressed in her brotherʹs clothes, Orlena felt truly free, at least for the few hours before she had to return to the hateful scrutiny of Señora Cruciaga.
ʺThis is so much fun, I shall steal out often to see the city,ʺ she murmured softly, unheard over the din. She wondered about the Apache prisoners. Sergeant Ruiz had said they would be brought down to march on foot with the caravan. Her eyes scanned the bright kaleidoscope of people, goods and animals, but she did not see the Indians.
ʺThey grow bolder and bolder. It is a great humiliation to our soldiers,ʺ Orlena overheard a shopkeeper say to a man in the blue uniform of a presidio guard.
ʺPah! They will not get far. Governor Quinn dispatched twenty of our best men with Opata trackers to recapture the prisoners and their would‐be rescuers. They will return by nightfall with the savages, then force‐march them to catch up with the caravan. Theyʹll be sweating in the mines by yearʹs end.ʺ
ʺI do not know,ʺ the merchant replied dubiously. ʺThe renegade called Night Wind has freed Apache slaves many times in the past years. The presidios do not deter him. He slips through army patrols like the wind blowing through the mountains.ʺ
ʺEvery escape from Santa Fe to El Paso is credited to this fellow. I do not even believe such a one exists,ʺ the soldier replied scornfully.
Orlenaʹs skin prickled. Those fierce savages so brutally abused by the guards had been freed. And by the hand of the mysterious renegade raider called Night Wind! She had heard several of the mixed‐blooded servants at the palace whisper about him, mooning over a deadly killer as if he were a knight in some medieval ballad!
The presidio soldier had stalked angrily away from the merchant. Orlena turned her attention back to the caravan of carts and pack mules being organized in the center of the plaza. Most of the cargo had been loaded. Soon her stepfather would arrive in his official capacity to signal the start of the great trek south. She must return to the palace well before that, lest he recognize her in her brotherʹs clothes. She liked this new freedom far too much to jeopardize it by exposing her disguise.
Orlena retraced her steps through a narrow passageway leading between the palace and the military barracks, intent on slipping unseen into the palace. An entrance to the kitchens lay at the end of the deserted corridor. Her boots made padded sounds in the dust, but suddenly she heard another footfall, much softer and swifter. A bare, bronzed arm seized her as she tried to turn. She was swept backward and pinned against a manʹs chest with such force that it knocked the breath from her before she could cry out. Then a filthy hand covered her face, stuffing a foultasting, greasy rag into her mouth.
Kicking and flailing ineffectually, she was hoisted over her abductorʹs back. The walls seemed to move with blurring speed as the savage ran with her toward the rear of the passage. She caught a glimpse of his bare legs and moccasined feet before another abductor swathed her in a scratchy woolen blanket.
Orlena suffocated in the stifling cocoon. She was hefted over a wall as a pack would be tossed by a cargador. Her head struck something solid when she was dropped on the other side and she lost consciousness.
She awakened, bruised and sore, tied across a horse that was moving at a steady canter. The rider holding her might have been her original captoror not. Slung upside‐down, still swathed in the blanket, she could see nothing, but she knew he was not alone. The sounds of several horses filled the air with the rhythmic pounding of their hooves. Her head ached abominably and her throat and mouth were parched from confinement in the hot blanket. She was too dazed and miserable to be frightened any more. Her body limply gave in to oblivion again.
When she awakened, it was dark. She was lying on a narrow pallet in a rude paisanoʹs shack. One flickering tallow candle provid
ed illumination to the shabby single room. She had thought her earlier accommodations on the journey to Santa Fe were less than elegant, but now she was appalled at the dusty floor and peeling walls of this hovel. A rickety table and one splintery stool stood across from the bed.
Slowly she turned her head, sensing that she was alone in the room, and that it served as her prison cell. As she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the cornhusk bedding, a thrill of real fear washed through her. The wrap flattening her breasts had slipped down, and her shirt was partially undoneor rather, the fastenings were ripped free. She tried to cover her breasts with the torn shirt, but it proved useless. Her hair spilled down her back in a heavy mass. Someone had freed it from the braided knot concealed beneath Santiagoʹs hat. They knew she was a woman! Had they known that when they abducted her? Why would she be singled out for kidnapping?
That was how Night Wind found her, huddled on the mattress, with that bright mantle of hair falling like a cape about her shoulders. It gleamed like old Spanish gold. He was struck again by her beauty as she turned her amazed amber eyes on him. Then he reminded himself of how the Spaniards mined their gold and forgot about her beauty.
ʺYou!ʺ she hissed, struggling to stand, feeling frighteningly vulnerable seated on the bed.
He watched her force her numbed, bruised limbs to work. The boyʹs clothing no longer hid her gender. When they had unrolled her from the blanket, her hat had fallen off. Then Broken Leg had removed her jacket and torn open her shirt. Now she struggled to conceal her bared breasts from Night Wind as he insolently inspected her.
ʺIt is all too apparent you are a woman, but the disguise was a good one.
Trysting while Don Conal was busy with official duties?ʺ he taunted her.
A combination of blind terror and unreasoning fury energized her. One small hand lashed out and slapped him for his insolence. The instant it was done, she regretted it. His eyes were as hard as glass when he reached up to rub his jaw.
She took in his metamorphosis from tame Indian to savage and knew he was no one to cross. He no longer wore loose cotton peasantʹs clothes, but an Apacheʹs buckskin breechclout. The wicked knife sheʹd seen him use in Chihuahua was sheathed at his side. His bare, muscular body gleamed bronze in the flickering light that cast his handsome face into harsh, angular planes. The anger blazing there subsided, replaced by a thoughtful expression.
Orlena instinctively took a step backward as his eyes swept over her body. In spite of the humiliating circumstances to which she had been reduced, she forced herself to remember who and what she was. ʺDo not dare to touch me!ʺ she blurted out.
His face slashed into a feral smile, revealing white, even teeth. ʺI will dare anything I wish,ʺ he said with studied insolence, ʺbut you would do well to heed what I command you. Come here. Take off your clothes.ʺ His eyes locked with hers in a contest of wills, daring her to back away again. Let her wonder if I will pounce on her like a wild panther. Every muscle in his body cried out to do so.
Orlena fought down the urge to retreat. Savages respected only courage and possessed no civilized compassion for any weaker than themselves. She squared her shoulders and tossed her mane of hair behind her defiantly. ʺI undress for no man until my lawful husband commands me.ʺ
ʺYou flatter yourself to think I would take you to wife. I bed Spanish women. I will never wed one.ʺ He glided one pantherish step nearer.
She stood her ground, rage now boiling in her veins. A filthy half‐caste renegade saying he would not wed her! She could not regain breath enough to denounce his perfidy when he advanced again. This time his hand reached out and caressed the curve of her breast, a liberty no man had ever taken before. She shivered in outrage and jumped back from the feather‐light caress as if scalded.
ʺI dislike repeating myself. Take off your clothes, unless you care not how torn they will be on your long journey with me.ʺ He stepped forward again, openly stalking her.
ʺI go nowhere with you,ʺ she spat, furious with herself for retreating, knowing he was only toying with her. ʹʹFoolish little lioness,ʺ he said impatiently as one long, bronzed arm swept around her slim waist, slamming her against his body.
His free hand tangled in her hair, pulling on it so that she was forced to look up into his face.
As he studied her eyes, nose, lips, each cameoperfect feature, Orlena felt the heat and male vitality of him, pressed intimately near. Her only experience even remotely comparable to this sensation was riding a spirited stallion whose raw muscular strength she could feel beneath her body. But now she would be the one beneath this savage, cruel Apache! She began to struggle, but her arms were pinned to her sides. He held her effortlessly. Even her attempts to kick at him were ineffectual since her boots had been removed. His body was rock‐hard and taut with lust as he enjoyed her writhing protest.
ʺDo not play the coy virgin, Lioness,ʺ he whispered roughly. Slowly, he lowered his face toward hers, imprisoning her head with his hand so she could not move.
Orlena knew he was going to kiss her. His breath was warm and clean, not at all the fetid stench she expected of a savage. Then his lips were on hers, moving, brushing, teasing. She gasped in startled surprise as his tongue traced a dancing pattern across her soft mouth, then entered to collide with hers.
Orlena stiffened as his tongue dueled with hers, cunningly darting and flicking.
At first she was repelled by the invasion, then pleasurable sensations began to seep through her body, seeming to move along previously uncharted pathways, down to her stomach, then curling lower. She was aware of the insistent pressure of his tall, lean body fused to hers, especially of the flesh beneath the scandalous breechclout, which rubbed shockingly just above the tingling juncture of her thighs. She responded to him in frenzied struggling, then stiffened resistance, gradually in yielding compliance.
Her body belonged to a stranger, someone who could never be a pure, highborn daughter of the Spanish nobility. When he ended the savagely gentle, shattering kiss, she was trembling, speechless, afraid she would fall to the ground at his feet if he released her. But he did not.
ʺYes, you will go with me,ʺ he whispered. ʺFor a long while, I believe.ʺ His smile was strangely bemused. The woman was an extraordinary combination of sensuality and innocence. Small wonder Conal found her diverting. As that thought took root in his mind, he let his arms drop free of her abruptly.
ʺI will not take another manʹs leavings,ʺ he said abruptly, pushing her away.
The dizzying cloud of pleasure enveloping her mind evaporated with the loss of body contact. Then his coldly insulting words struck her. She had just been violated, and worse yet, had abased herself before this Apache. Now he scorned her!
ʺI am no manʹs leavings. I will die before I become yoursyou are a heathen savage! I am the daughter of the governor of this province, Don Conal Quinn, who will flay you alive for touching me!ʺ Tears of rage and humiliation were blurring her vision and she hated herself for the sign of weakness.
ʺYou cannot be his daughter,ʺ he rasped out with a stricken look on his face. ʺHe has a young sonwhose clothes you were masquerading in. You are his whore.ʺ
She slapped him again. This time he did not let it pass, but grabbed her shoulders in a bone‐crushing grip, shaking her like a terrier worrying a rat. ʺThe boy cannot be your brother. The time is not right,ʺ he gritted out insistently.
ʺSantiago is my brother,ʺ she said quickly in breathless fright. ʺWe had the same mother. Don Conal treats me as his own beloved child, the same as his son.ʺ
He released her and turned his back to pace stiffly across the floor. Then he whirled on her with contemptand was it relief?in his eyes. ʺYou are but a poor stepdaughter, brought along out of pity . . . and perhaps . . .ʺ He appeared to consider.
As the obscenity of his line of thought sank in, Orlena restrained her urge to fly at him with claws out. Instead she spoke in the most disdainful voice she could muster. ʺI am Conalʹs daughter in all but b
loodhe would do anything for me, the same as for Santiago. He will kill you without mercy, you and every filthy savage who has helped you abduct me.ʺ
He ignored her threats, studying her once more. What a fiasco this dayʹs work had been! Spotted Elk and Stands Tall had watched Santiago all week and abducted ʺhimʺ when the most convenient opportunity presented itselfconvenient because it was not the boy but a girl in disguise! He flushed in disgust, ʺWhat would a highborn lady be doing sneaking out in such disgraceful garb?ʺ
Orlena felt her cheeks redden. ʺI wanted to see the caravan for Chihuahua City in the plaza,ʺ she responded defiantly.
He scoffed. ʺIf Don Conal loves you so well, surely he would not deny such a simple request? Why the masquerade, Lioness?ʺ
She bit her lip in vexation, refusing to explain any further to this arrogant savage.
She countered his question with one of her own. ʺHow did such an evil‐looking renegade learn to speak such educated Spanish?ʺ
He threw back his head and laughed. ʺBarbedtongued little spitfireyou prickle like a desert cactus.ʺ
ʺThink me a Spanish dagger and beware my spines,ʺ she replied, recalling the spiked cactus they had observed on their journey.
He walked nearer again, until he knew she could sense the heat of his body.
ʺBetter you beware my spike,ʺ he said softly.
Her face reddened at his crudity, but she refused to cower. ʺMy stepfather is the governor. He will pay any ransom to have me returned unharmed,ʺ she said, attempting to infuse self‐assurance rather than supplication into her voice. Then the thought hit her. ʺYou intended to kidnap my brother and hold him for ransom!ʺ
He neither admitted nor denied her accusation. ʺBut you stole his clothes and sneaked from the palace. I repeata loverʹs tryst?ʺ
ʺI have no lover!ʺ she replied with such outrage that he believed her.
ʺThen why the disguise? If you are Don Conalʹs daughter in all but bloodwhy would he not escort you to the plaza when he sent off the caravan?ʺ
