Night Wind's Woman

by tiffy

  The sandy soil was gritty and full of rocks away from the waterʹs edge, but an uneven carpet of tall grass grew out of the water and up the gently sloping bank.

  He carried her dripping from the water and tossed her on it. Before she could regain her breath or roll up, he seized her sagging, loose trouser legs and yanked, straightening her legs and raising her buttocks off the ground. Unbuttoned at the top, the trousers slid off with a whoosh, taking with them the ragged remains of her undergarments.

  He looked down at her naked flesh, sun and wind burned, covered with scratches and bruises. Orlena shivered as the dry air quickly evaporated the cold water from her skin. She tried ineffectually to cover herself with her hands as she rolled to one side, unable to meet his piercing gaze. He reached down and scooped her into his arms again.

  ʺNow, I am going to let you swim for a few moments while I get some medicine from my saddle‐bags. I do not think it wise to try to escape with no clothing. You are already burned enough!ʺ With that he tossed her back into the icy embrace of the water and strolled off, heedless of his own nakedness.

  Orlena fumed as she treaded water, watching him carry off the last remnants of her clothes. He was right. Where could she go in the mountain wilderness, naked and afoot? In only a moment he returned, leading the big black‐and‐white stallion. He took something from the buckskin pouch on what passed on Apache mounts for a saddle and waded back into the swallows. ʺSpanish ladies seem to set great store by this,ʺ he said mockingly, holding up a piece of what looked to be soapreal soap! ʺIt is not the jasmine scent you favor, but it is all I could find for our unplanned bathing.ʺ He held out the soap for her inspection. The unspoken command was in his eyes as he waited, waist‐deep in the water, for her to come to him.

  Orlena warred within herself. She could not outrun him and had nowhere to go, yet she hated to let him humble her by begging for the soapnot to mention having to expose her nakedness once again to his lascivious green eyes in order to reach the bribe. She treaded water, careful not to let her breasts bob above the surface.

  ʺToss it to me. I can catch quite well.ʺ

  He smiled blackly. ʺAllow me to guess. Conal taught you. No, Doña Orlena, you must come to meor stay in the lake until that lovely little body turns blue and freezes at nightfall.ʺ With that he sauntered toward the shallows, tossing the soap casually from hand to hand.

  ʺWait!ʺ Orlena was growing cold already and the sun was beginning to arc toward its final descent beyond the mountain peaks to the west.

  He turned with one arched black eyebrow raised and said, ʺI will meet you half way, but you must do as I command. I have already given my word not to take you against your will. Unlike your Spanish soldiers, the word of a Lipan is never broken.ʺ

  That a savage could talk to her thus made bile rise in her throat, but she was trapped in the freezing water, hungry, naked, completely at his mercy. ʺI suppose I must trust your Apache honor,ʺ she replied through chattering teeth.

  Was it only the cold that made her shiver? Very slowly she swam toward him.

  Very slowly he walked across the smooth lake bottom toward her. Orlena watched the sunlight filtering through the trees trace a shifting design on his bronzed skin. His arm and chest muscles rippled with every step he took. He had taken off the leather headband along with his other apparel and his wet black hair hung free, almost touching his shoulders. Without the band, he seemed less Apache, more white, but not less dangerous.

  ʺCome,ʺ he whispered, watching her, knowing what this was costing her Spanish pride. Waiting for her, touching her without taking her, was exacting a price from him as well. He observed the swell of her breasts swaying as she moved through the clear water. Darkened almost bronze by soaking, her hair floated like a mantle, covering her as she touched bottom and rose from the water.

  He reached out and drew her to him, unresisting at first, until he pushed back the wet heavy hair from one pale shoulder. ʺNo,ʺ she gasped, but it was too late.

  He had one slim wrist imprisoned. Slowly he worked a rich, sensuous lather against her collarbone, moving lower, toward her breast. When his soap‐slicked fingers made contact, she forgot to breathe. The tip of her breast puckered to a hard, rosy point and the tingling that began there quickly spread downward.

  When he released her wrist, Orlena did not notice. His free hand lifted the wet hair from her shoulder and he spread the lather across to capture her other breast, gently massaging both of them in rhythm. She swayed unsteadily in the water. Although it was still cold, Orlena Valdéz had become hot. Night Wind cupped her shoulders and then worked the sensuous, slick suds down her arms.

  She stood glassy‐eyed and trembling in the waist‐deep water, studying the rippling muscles beneath the light dusting of black hair on his chest. It narrowed in a pattern that vanished beneath the water. Just as her eyes began to trespass to that forbidden place, she felt a jolt as he reached that selfsame location on her! Quickly and delicately, he skirted the soft mound of curls and lathered over her hips, then around, cupping her buttocks.

  ʺRaise your hair and turn,ʺ he commanded hoarsely, maneuvering her like a porcelain doll into shallow water. He could feel the quivering thrill that raced through her as he performed the intimate toilette. His own body responded, hard and aching, but he ignored his need and massaged the delicate vertebrae of her back, down past her tiny waist to the flair of hips and rounding of buttocks.

  ʺNow, kneel so I can wash your hair.ʺ

  Like a sleepwalker she responded to his slight pressure on her shoulders and knelt with her back to him. He lathered the masses of hair, massaging her scalp with incredibly gentle fingers. Orlena imagined her maid back in Spain performing this familiar ritual, but this was not Maria and she was far from Madrid, alone in a foreign land, the prisoner of a savage!

  His voice, low and warm, with its disquietingly educated accent, cut into her chaotic thoughts. ʺLower your head and rinse away the soap.ʺ

  Orlena did so, working all traces of the lather from her hair. Then she rose from the water, eyes tightly closed against the sting of the soap, and began to squeeze the excess water from her hair. Night Wind watched the way her breasts curved as she raised her arms above her head. Her waist was slim, her skin pale; she was so fragile and lovely that it made his heart stop.

  He had used many white women over the years, but none had any more claim on him than to assuage his lust, more often to please his masculine pride. A despised Apache could seduce a fine white lady, have her begging him to make love to her. Make love! Those other times had been more acts of war than love to Night Wind. Never had he played a waiting game, balancing gentleness with iron authority. Never before had he taken a white womanʹs virginity. And it was still far too soon, he knew, for that to occur unless he forced her. The feelings she evoked were dangerous and he did not like them. The anger betrayed itself in his voice.

  ʹʹNow, I have bathed you. You will bathe me.ʺ

  Orlenaʹs eyes flew open and she blinked in amazement. ʺSurely you jest, but it does not amuse me!ʺ

  ʺSo, I can play ladyʹs maid to you,ʺ he said in a quiet deadly voice, ʺbut you will not be body servant to a dirty savage.ʺ

  She reddened guiltily, recalling her thoughts of Maria a moment earlier. He held out the soap in one open palm, waiting once more.

  ʺNo! I will notI cannot.ʺ She hated the way her voice cracked.

  ʺYes, you will and you canelse the young deer Broken Leg is now roasting will not fill that lovely little belly tonight.ʺ

  Ever since her first temper tantrum with the bowl of beans and the water gourd, she had learned the power of hunger and thirst over human pride. She had not been fed all the following day, only given water, until they camped last night. By then the mush of bean paste had actually been palatable. Now the fragrance of roasting meat wafted on the evening breeze. She salivated and her stomach rumbled. They had broken their morning fast at dawn with cold corn cakes and water, but she had eaten nothing
since. ʺI have clothes for you, in Warpaintʹs saddlebag,ʺ he motioned to the horse grazing untethered nearby. ʺOr, you can stay here all night, freezing and starving.ʺ

  With a remarkable oath she had overheard a Spanish sailor use, Orlena stalked over to him and grabbed the soap.

  Forcing her hands to remain steady was nearly impossible as she flattened her lathered palms against his sleek dark skin and began to rub in small circles across his chest, then down the hard biceps on his arms. His chest was lightly furred with curly black hair. Trusting the steadiness of her voice only slightly more than that of her hands, she said curiously, ʺAll the other men are smooth skinned. Why do youʺ

  ʺYou may think me a savage, but I am half white,ʺ was the stormy reply. Then he added in a lighter tone, ʺYou have never seen any manʹs bared chest before, have you, Lioness?ʺ

  She stiffened at the intimacy of his voice, hating herself for her stupid words. ʺOf course not!ʺ

  ʺThen how did Conal teach you to swimfully clothed?ʺ

  A small smile warmed her face as she recalled being a little girl with a toddler brother, cavorting in the pond at the villa in Aranjuez. ʺIn fact, we all wore light undergarments. I was a child and never thought on it. But I do not remember him furred as are you.ʺ

  He frowned. ʺConalʹs hair is red. It would not show as easily as dark hair. Body hair is considered ugly among my people.ʺ

  She looked up suddenly. ʺThen the Apache must think you uncomely indeed,ʺ

  she said with asperity.

  ʺNo. The Lipan accept me as one of their own,ʺ he replied with an arrogant grin, adding, ʺWomen, red or white, have never found me unattractive.ʺ ʺWell now you have met the first one who does,ʺ she hissed.

  ʺLiar,ʺ he whispered softly, watching as she lowered her eyes and busily applied herself to the disconcerting task he had set her.

  Orlena felt the steady thud of his heart, angry at its evenness when her own pulse was racing.

  Night Wind was having a far more difficult time looking calm than the furious, golden‐haired woman before him could imagine. Lord, her small, rounded breasts arched up enticingly as she raised her arms to lather him. Intent on winning this contest of wills with her, he clenched his fists beneath the water to keep from caressing the impudently pointed nipples. Smiling, he watched how she bit her lip in concentration as she was forced to touch his body. She kept her eyes fastened on her busy hands, not looking up into his face.

  Orlena could feel him shrug and flex his muscles as he turned, allowing her such casual access to his body. She thought she knew it well from lying wrapped in his arms the past nights. She was wronghow much different this was, with both of them naked, slicked by the cool water and warm sun.

  ʺTurn so I may wash your back.ʺ She tried to emulate his command and was rewarded with a rich, low chuckle. When he did not move at once, she added, ʺYou do not, for a surety, fear to turn your back on a mere female?ʺ

  ʺNot as long as my knife and any other weapons lay well beyond your reach,ʺ he replied with arched eyebrows. Then kneeling in front of her he added, ʺIt will be far easier for you to wash my hair than me yours.ʺ

  His thick hair was coarse and straight, shiny black as a ravenʹs wing. She worked a rich lather into it, finding the massaging motion of her fingertips on his scalp soothing. Angry with herself, she shoved his head under the water abruptly, saying, ʺRinse clean.ʺ

  He came up coughing and splattering her with droplets. ʺYou try a manʹs patience overmuch, Lioness.ʺ Then a slow smile transformed his face as he said with arrogant assurance, ʺWash below the water, also, as I did to you.ʺ

  She dropped the soap with a splash, but he quickly recovered it in the clear water. When he handed it to her silently, she moved around him and began with his back. Touching his tight, lean buttock made her quiver with a strange seeping warmth in spite of the cold water. She finished quickly, forgetting to breathe as he turned around to face her again.

  His eyes burned into her as he took her wrist and began to work her small, soapy palm in circles around his navel, then lower, beneath the water. When she touched that mysterious, frighteningly male part of him, she could feel its heat and hardness.

  In spite of his best resolution, Night Wind let out a sharp gasp and his hips jerked reflexively when he closed her soap‐filled little hand around his phallus.

  Orlena jumped back, jerking her hand free. At first she was uncertain what had happened, but then she realized what it was, and a small smirk curved her lips.

  So, he is not as indifferent to me as he would pretend. On a few occasions when she escaped her dueña, she had seen animals mate in their stables. Always the maleʹs staff had seemed an ugly, threatening thing to her. But those were merely horses and dogs. This was different . . . frightening, yes, but not ugly. . . .

  She dragged her thoughts from their horrifying direction. Blessed Virgin, what was happening to her? She surely had not found the naked body of a man pleasing! And a savage at that! Like mares and bitches, women had to subject themselves to male lust in the marriage bed. But she knew well from her own motherʹs plight what the consequences werea swollen belly and an agonizing childbirth. She backed away from him, clenching the soap unconsciously in her hands.

  Night Wind struggled with his desire for her, but at last let her go, deciding the game had been played out long enough for now. Then he realized that she continued slowly backing away from him, all the spitting fury and innocent sexual awakening of moments ago evaporated. Her face was chalky, and she wrapped her arms protectively about her body as if warding off a blow.

  ʺI did not intend to frighten you, Lioness,ʺ he said softly. ʺI gave my word not to force you, and I will keep it.ʺ

  ʺI see evidence to the contrary,ʺ she spat, but refused to look at his lower body, clearly outlined beneath the water.

  One long arm shot out and grabbed her wrist, prying the soap from her fingers.

  ʺWe are both clean enough,ʺ he said gruffly, pulling the shivering woman behind him as he splashed to the bank.

  Feeling her resistance, he released her in the shallows and said, ʺI have cloth to dry you and an ointment for your burns.ʺ

  ʺAnd what of the small matter of clothing? You have destroyed the pitiful remnants of Santiagoʹs shirt and trousers.ʺ

  ʺI have more suitable garmentswomenʹs clothes with which to replace them,ʺ he replied reasonably, ignoring her as he pulled a long cloth from the piebaldʹs saddlebag and tossed it at her.

  Orlena dried herself carefully with the rough cotton towel, wincing at its abrasion on her tender skin. In a moment he returned from another foray into his pack with a small tin. ʺPascal says this is a miracle cure for sun and wind burn. It will serve until the women of my band can tend you.ʺ

  She eyed him suspiciously. His hair and chest were still wet but he had slipped on a pair of sleek buckskin pants and his moccasins. He held out the ointment like a peace offering. ʺCome here.ʺ A smile played about his lips. ʺAfter all, I need not repeat the rest of the sentence. You are already rid of your clothes.ʺ

  ʺYou promised me womenʹs clothing,ʺ she replied with rising anger, but still she clutched the towel protectively in front of herself.

  He waited until she approached, warily, then commanded, ʺRaise your hair first so I may treat your shoulders.ʺ

  Still holding the towel draped around herself with one hand, she lifted her hair up with the other. Santiagoʹs thin shirt had been ripped on the brushy shrubs and trees as they rode and her skin was both scratched and sunburned. His fingers were calloused, yet warm and soothing as he spread the salve with surprising gentleness. The sting evaporated magically, but she did not voice her appreciation, only turned to let him minister to her throat and arms, then her hands.

  When he tipped up her chin to touch her windburned cheeks and nose, she was forced to meet his eyes. Again a sense of recognition niggled, then vanished as she observed his reaction to her.

  ʺAh, Lioness, you are too delicate
for New Mexico. You should have stayed in Spain,ʺ he said with what almost sounded like regret in his voice.

  She looked at him oddly, puzzled and afraid. Of him . . . or of herself? She honestly did not know.

  Chapter 8

  That night Orlena helped Pascal serve the savages their evening meal of freshly roasted meat. They know Night Wind took me bathing with him like a common body servant! she thought miserably. Of course, since they already thought she was his whore, what did it matter if he had rewarded her with the scandalous outfit she wore?

  She angrily shoved the low‐cut peasant blouse back onto her shoulder. Every time she reached forward it gaped open, revealing her breasts, which showed all too clearly anyway through the thin white cotton. The bright red skirt hung almost a foot above the ground, revealing her slim ankles and the perfectly horrid leather sandals that flopped on her narrow feet. Naturally, Night Wind had given her no undergarments!

  Gritting her teeth, she tossed her thick plait of hair over her shoulder and bit into a hunk of venison. The juice dribbled down her chin and she wiped it away with her fingers. After a lifetime of taking table linens for granted, Orlena Valdéz had been reduced to a sorry pass indeed! She ignored the impassive savages as her hunger, combined with the first decent food she had eaten in days, erased the last vestiges of her ladylike decorum. She squatted by the fire and greedily stuffed bits of meat into her mouth with her fingers. Just like a peasant, a savage!

  Blaise Pascal watched Night Windʹs beautiful captive. She had been singularly subdued since returning with him from the lake, dressed in the paisanaʹs clothes.

  The clean blouse and skirt were far more flattering than the filthy boyʹs trousers, to his way of thinking, but she was a Spanish noblewoman, Conalʹs ward. The Frenchman could well imagine how she hated the crude garments.