Night Wind's Woman

by tiffy

  ʺConal will pay you well for my return,ʺ she replied evasively.

  ʺHe sounds like a tyrant then, forbidding his innocent stepdaughter the right to attend a great festival,ʺ he persisted.

  ʺHe is not a tyrant! He is wonderful and kind and good, and he loves me!ʺ

  Orlena cried in frustration.

  He loves me! Her words ate into his soul like acid. ʺI shall write a letter to your beloved stepfather, Lioness.ʺ

  ʺIf you harm me, Conal will see you repent in hell! I promise you.ʺ

  ʺDo not make promises that neither you nor Conal can keep,ʺ he whispered softly, then vanished through the door.

  ʺYou cannot keep her,ʺ Spotted Elk said in amazement. ʺKill her and let us leave before the armyʹs Opata scouts track us here.ʺ

  Night Wind sat before the fire, deep in thought. ʺNo, I will not kill her. She will serve my vengeance well.ʺ

  ʺShe is only his whore,ʺ Stands Tall said in disgust, ʺnot the son. I am sorry for the mistake. The governor will not care that we take her with us. She cannot become a warrior to fight the Spanish.ʺ

  Night Windʹs face slashed with a slow smile as he spoke. ʺNo, she cannot become a warrior as can the boy. We will one day capture him, but for now I have a use for her.ʺ

  He sat before the fire with his writing instruments, carefully composing a letter to Conal Quinn.

  Conal:

  I hold your beloved stepdaughter Orlena. She is very beautiful. I commend your restraint in not taking her virginity yet, but I will relieve you of that burden on your conscience. When I return her to you, she will have been my creature. Think long on that every time you gaze at her perfect golden body and know you that I learned its every secret.

  Night Wind

  Orlena sat alone, cold and hungry, huddled on the lumpy pallet. Ignoring her growling stomach and aching head, her mind raced over the dayʹs horrifying events. How was she to escape? She had no idea of how far they had traveled while she was unconscious. She had overheard the presidio soldiers say the renegades hid in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains northeast of the capital, but she could not be certain that was where they had taken her. Conal and his soldiers had scant chance of finding her before she was dishonored by that hateful renegade. She had to flee his frightening touch before she was ruined, not only physically but spiritually.

  What had transpired between them earlier terrified her worse than being raped by a band of cutthroats. Then, at least, she would have fought and died quickly.

  But the handsome half‐caste with the perfect Castilian accent would exact an even higher penalty. Every time she closed her eyes she could see that chisled face with its arresting eyes piercing her soul, reading her innermost thoughts and fears. The clean vitality of his scent hung in the air of the room. ʺI must not let him touch me again,ʺ she whispered into the silence of the night.

  Locked in a windowless, adobe‐walled room, there seemed little chance of escape, but just then the wooden door opened and a burly Apache entered. He carried a crude pottery bowl filled with brownish gruel that he set on the table, along with a gourd full of brackish water.

  Orlena stood looking past him through the open door. The dim light of a campfire flickered down the hill. Three figures huddled around the fire. Were there any others? She looked at the impassive savage and decided to attempt communicating with him. ʺI need to go outside. I cannot breathe in this closed‐in place a moment longer.ʺ

  His fathomless obsidian gaze gave no indication that he had understood a word she said. Then he pointed at the food and turned to where a cracked chamber pot stood in the corner and motioned to it with a crude, unmistakable gesture. She reddened in mortified fury and reached for the bowl of refried beans, hurling them toward his expressionless face. He dodged the missile effortlessly and walked out the door. The shards of broken pottery lay about the floor with bits of the sticky beans adhering to it. Her stomach let out a fierce rumble and she collapsed on the bed in defeat.

  Shortly, the door opened with a sharp crack, and Night Wind stood silhouetted in it, an impatient scowl on his face. ʺA foolish waste of valuable food, little lioness. Your spoiled Spanish temper will bring you only hunger here. Perhaps you will be more willing to eat tomorrow?ʺ He shrugged indifferently and walked toward the pallet.

  When he sat down beside her, Orlena jumped up, her fatigue and hunger forgotten. ʺI will not lie with you, youfilthy renegade,ʺ she hissed, placing the small table between them and arming herself with the pitiful water gourd.

  He made no move to rise but merely regarded her with the disgust a parent might show for a dim‐witted child. ʺNow you will spend the night thirsty as well as hungry. I care not, but understand thisfor as long as you are my prisoner you will obey me. And I will keep you until I tire of you.ʺ

  ʺYou said you were going to ransom me.ʺ She tried to put assurance into her tone of voice.

  ʺNo, you said it. I did not.ʺ

  ʺI will not let you take me.ʺ She spat the words out in a breathless, terrified voice as her knuckles whitened on the gourd handle.

  ʺI am not going to rape you, Lioness,ʺ he replied softly. ʺI do not force women, but there are many of my men who do not share my feelings. Having lost their own wives and sisters to the whites, they rape Spanish captives whenever the chance arises. If you would have me protect you from their lust, you must obey my commands. If my men believe you are my woman, they will not touch you.ʺ

  He waited for her to digest this.

  ʺWhat do you mean, ʹbelieve I am your womanʹ?ʺ she asked suspiciously.

  ʺRansom me and let me return to Conal.ʺ

  His face lost its patient expression. ʺYou are my prisoner. I will do what I will do.

  Come and sleep on the mattress with me or sit all night in that rough chair. This will be the softest bed you will have for many nights.ʺ

  ʺI would rather lie on jagged rocks than beside you,ʺ she ground out.

  ʺYou will get part of that request sooner than you realize,ʺ was all he replied.

  Then he lay down on the pallet and rolled over.

  Orlena waited at the table until the candle was almost gutted out. His even breathing seemed to indicate that he slept. Silently she rose with every muscle in her body screaming in protest. Each step across the dirt floor was made with stealth. I must get that knife from its sheath and plunge it into his heart.

  Without making the slightest sound, Orlena knelt beside the pallet. His body was sleek and sinuous even in sleep, like a splendid wild animalʹs. She took a deep breath to steady her trembling hand and reached for the knife belted securely at his narrow hip. Suddenly, his iron‐hard fingers clamped on her slim wrist with bone‐crushing force and he pulled her across his body. Before she realized what had happened, she was lying atop his chest with her arms pinned behind her.

  Night Wind lay on his back, holding her effortlessly. She felt soft, and her golden hair was scented with jasmine, even though the smell of the filthy blanket clung to her clothes. Her breasts strained against his bare chest and he could feel her heart pound. His own responded by accelerating. They lay for a breathless moment suspended in time as both assimilated the new and powerful sensations rioting through their bodies. He had vowed to go slowly, to seduce her and make her beg for his touch, but her effect on him was unlike that of any noble lady he had conquered in the past. ʺI could take you right now,ʺ he whispered hoarsely in her ear.

  When she began to flail and kick, he twisted onto his side and threw one long bronzed leg across her lower body. His hand tangled in her hair. ʺThere, you see how easy it would be?ʺ

  Orlena was panting now, fighting the terror welling inside her. She could feel the burn of his gaze as he looked down between their bodies. Sweet Mother, her half‐torn shirt had come open in their wrestling and two puckered pink nipples lay bare before his lustful eyes. ʺI will not beg for mercy,ʺ she forced herself to reply.

  Slowly he pulled her closer, until her breasts pressed against his
hair‐roughened chest. ʺMercy is a hypocritical notion of white men. Lipan do not pretend such an alien feeling. We hateand we lovehonestly.ʺ

  ʺI hate you, you filthy, brutal, savageʺ

  ʺYou begin to repeat yourself, Lioness,ʺ he interrupted. ʺI said I chose not to force you. But if you persist in trying to kill me, I might decide to let Broken Leg have you. He asked for you tonight.ʺ

  Instinctively she knew he referred to the squat, ugly man who brought her dinner. She shivered in spite of herself. Something inside of her snapped as she asked bluntly, ʺIf you do not desire me and do not choose to ransom me, then why do you not just give me to him and have done?ʺ ʺTime will give us both the answer to that, Lioness. Do not further try my patience in the meanwhile.ʺ He released her hands and rolled onto his other side, his knife secured beneath him, his back to her.

  Orlena lay scrunched between the adobe wall and his hard body. Her wrists were numb and every inch of her body ached with exhaustion. As she wriggled onto her back and attempted to cover her breasts, she knew he lied about not desiring her. Lust had been plainly visible in his face only moments ago. But for now she had a reprieve. Sleep claimed her almost instantly.

  Chapter 7

  The little Frenchman watched the wind tangle the womanʹs golden hair as she struggled to keep her precarious seat. Her little burro climbed a steep, rocky incline in the fastness of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

  ʹʹWhat will you do with her, mon ami? Sell her to the slavers to ransom back?ʺ

  Pascal asked Night Wind in serviceable Spanish with an oddly lilting French accent.

  ʺNo, I will not do that,ʺ the half‐caste replied with narrowed eyes fastened on the troublesome woman.

  ʺYou will kill her then,ʺ Pascal said flatly, ʺwhen you have tired of her.ʺ

  ʺI will not tire of her for a good while yet, but when I do . . .ʺ He stopped, not completing the sentence.

  Blaise Pascal looked at Joaquín, the man now called Night Wind, whom he had first met as the Green‐Eyed Boy in a Lipan camp fifteen years ago. ʺThe woman is beautiful, but headstrong and dangerous. She almost escaped you yesterday.ʺ

  Night Windʹs mouth hardened into a parody of a smile. ʺWhy do you think I have her riding one of your burros? Mounted thus, she cannot escape a horseman.ʺ

  ʺAlready she has lamed one of your finest stallions and nearly gutted Spotted Elk before you subdued her. She is too much trouble and probably a hellcat to bed as well.ʺ

  Night Wind looked at the deceptively benign face of the fat little Frenchman.

  ʺJust what are you leading up to, mon ami?ʺ

  Pascal shrugged his shoulders expressively, curious about the raiderʹs uncharacteristic behavior. ʺI might be able to contact the new governor and arrange a ransom.ʺ

  ʺFor a goodly share of the proceeds,ʺ Night Wind interjected. ʺNo. I will not ransom her.ʺ

  ʺThen she must be as changeable as a desert wind, turning from haughty bitch to hot‐blooded woman in your blankets. Morena will not like this one, Joaquín.ʺ

  Night Windʹs eyes hardened as he replied icily, ʺDo not call me Joaquín when we are with my people. As to Morenaʺhe pausedʺshe understands our relationship well enough. Orlena has naught to do with her.ʺ

  If the French trader was puzzled about Night Windʹs plans for Orlena, she was even more confused. Smiling like a cat teasing a sparrow, he had told her the first night as he pulled her against him, ʺBody heat makes blankets work better.ʺ It was true that the farther they climbed into the mountains, the colder the nights grew. Hating herself for it, she awakened the next morning huddled closely against him, with his arm draped possessively across her breasts. He seemed to take perverse delight in touching her intimately, although he did not again demand that she disrobe.

  As Orlena relived last night, she feared that he planned something more insidious than rape. He had held her next to his hard, naked body, his flesh scalding her with its heat as he caressed her breasts and hips with his slim, deft fingers. He tangled his hands in her hair, drawing her to him for one of those searing, humiliating kisses. Prepared for what his lips and tongue could do, she had forced herself to remain rigid and unresponsive, her mouth tightly sealed.

  After a few moments he had stopped his amorous attention with apparent indifference. Long after he slept soundly she lay wide awake, exhausted and trembling. What does he want with me if not to ransom or to rape? The question had hammered at her since they rode off from the isolated adobe hut with the renegade trader two days before.

  At first she had hoped that Pascal, a white man, would intervene in her behalf.

  But he was a Frenchman, trading with the Apache and Comanche in Spanish territory. If the Spanish soldiers ever caught him in New Mexico, they would shoot him, he informed her in casual good humor. A brief conversation with him in her best court French had given her an idea, however.

  She found out that they were riding northeast toward Elk Mountain to throw the presidio troops off their trail before shifting to a southerly route. If she could just break away and head due south, she might encounter Spanish soldiers scouring the mountains for her. But one of Night Windʹs men had stopped her. They struggled over his knife and she accidentally stabbed him. Then the stupid horse she was riding had stumbled and thrown her. When the tall half‐caste had yanked her roughly to her feet, she had almost prayed for a quick death. But he had perfunctorily examined her for injuries and then seated her on one of Pascalʹs burros!

  Orlena cursed the plodding, foul‐tempered little beast that smelled even worse than she did. After three days without a bath, she was filthy. The hot, parching days in the sun had wind‐blistered her delicate golden skin until it peeled painfully; the cold night air drove her to seek the most unwelcome body heat of her captor.

  As if conjured up, Night Wind reined in his big piebald stallion alongside her.

  He inspected her bedraggled condition, finding her distressingly desirable in spite of burned skin, tangled hair, and torn boyʹs clothing. In fact, the shirt and pants outlined her flawlessly feminine curves all too well now that she had discarded the binding about her breasts.

  Orlena watched his cool green eyes examine her and felt an irrational urge to comb her fingers through her hair in a vain attempt to straighten it. Instead she said waspishly, ʺWhy do you stare at me? To take pleasure in my misery?ʺ

  He chuckled, a surprisingly rich sound, vaguely familiar. Indeed the eyes, too, seemed familiar, but that was only because in his swarthy face such an obvious white manʹs feature stood out.

  ʺLook you ahead. Relief for your misery is at hand. Your bath awaits.ʺ He gestured to a dense cluster of scrub pine and some rustling alders. They ringed a small lake of crystal‐clear water fed from some underground spring.

  Orlenaʹs first impulse was to leap into its cool, inviting depths, but her reason quickly asserted itself. She fixed him with a frosty glare and replied, ʺA lady requires privacy for her ablutions. Also some clean clothes to wear afterward.ʺ

  ʺUnfortunately for you, my men and I travel light. We have no silk dresses in our saddlebags.ʺ

  ʺThen you should not have abducted me,ʺ she snapped as her burro skittered, smelling the water.

  ʺYou should not have worn your brotherʹs clothes and my men would not have taken you by mistake,ʺ he replied evenly as he dismounted by the waterʹs edge.

  Her eyes narrowed. They were back at the original impasse. ʺWhy did you want Santiago?ʺ

  His face became shuttered once more as he considered his plan gone awry. ʺI did not plan to kill him,ʺ was all he would say.

  Or ransom him either. Orlena was certain of that much. His motives regarding both of them centered on Conal in some way. Before she could argue further he strode over to the burro and swept her from it, tossing her into the deep clear water. At first she shrieked in shock as her blistered, sweaty body met the icy-cold water. But when she began to swim, the cold became refreshing. However, her clothes and boots were a decided
impediment. With a couple of quick yanks she freed the boots and tossed them onto the bank.

  Night Wind watched her glide through the water like a sleek little otter. He was surprised that she could swim. He had expected her to flounder and cry out to be rescued from drowning. Smiling grimly to himself, he shed his moccasins and breechclout and dove in after her.

  ʺLadies do not know how to swim, Lioness,ʺ he said as he caught up with her in several swift strokes.

  She gasped in surprise, then recovered. ʺConal taught Santiago and me when we were children.ʺ His face darkened ominously. ʺHe has taught you muchtoo much for a Spanish female of the noble class.ʺ

  ʺSome Spaniard has taught you alsotoo much for an Apache male of the renegade class,ʺ she replied in a haughty tone as cold as his expression.

  He reached out and one wet hand clamped on her arm, pulling her to him.

  ʺCome here. Take off your clothes,ʺ he whispered.

  Her eyes scanned the banks. As if by prearrangement, the Lipan and Pascal had vanished downstream. She could dimly hear them unpacking the animals and making camp, but a thick stand of juniper bushes and alder trees provided complete privacy. She jerked free and kicked away from him, but he was a stronger swimmer. In a few strokes he caught up to her, this time grabbing her around her waist.

  ʺYou will drown us both if you are not sensible,ʺ he said as he struggled with the shirt plastered to her body.

  ʺI told you the last time you asked me to disrobe that I would never do it for you,ʺ she gasped, flailing at him. Blessed Virgin, she could see through the water! He was completely naked! ʺNo!ʺ The cry was torn from her as he finally succeeded in freeing her from the shredded remnants of her shirt.

  ʺYou are burned and filthy. If you do not cleanse your skin properly you will become ill,ʺ he gritted out as he began to unfasten the buttons on her trousers.

  She continued struggling. ʺI am not going to rape you, little Lioness,ʺ he whispered roughly.

  ʺI do not believe you,ʺ she panted. ʺYou only waited, tricked meʺ

  He silenced her with a kiss. It was most difficult to remain coldly rigid with her lips closed when she was gasping for breath and flailing in the water. The hot interior of his mouth was electrifying as he opened it over hers. His tongue plunged in to twine with hers in a silent duel. Orlena pushed at his chest ineffectually as he propelled them effortlessly toward the bank where shade from an overhanging alder beckoned.