by tiffy
ʺI cannot dissuade you, can I?ʺ With slumped shoulders she subsided, recognizing the shuttered look on his beautiful face. The chiseled perfection of his Apache and European features had always stirred her. He was the most magnificent lover she had ever known, and tonight she wanted him. It had been far, far too long. Wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, she whispered, ʺYour wife has refused to take her dinner with us. Let her sleep alone, too. Come with me this night, Joaquín. I will make you forget her!ʺ
He kissed her hand softly and shook his head. ʺIt would not be fair, Morena.
After I married her in the Lipan ceremony, I explained to you what I had done.
Then I believed she loved me. Now I know she lied, but she is my wife and I will take her with me to Texas. For now, I will not hurt you by promising what I cannot give.ʺ
ʺThen give me only what I askone nightno promises, Joaquín.ʺ I should not have brought Orlena here, he thought angrily. He had wanted to hurt her by flaunting Morena in front of her, but he had not thought what his actions would do to Morena. ʺLet it lie, Morena,ʺ he said quietly. ʺI think it best if we leave on the morrow.ʺ
ʺWhat will you do with Orlena Valdéz after you have killed the Irishman?ʺ she asked with a calculating look in her eyes.
The shuttered mask he wore earlier slipped for a moment. ʺI do not know. I went to rescue her at my brotherʹs pleading. Santiago thought she was being abused by Ignacio.ʺ He laughed bitterly. ʺHe mistook the matter. Perhaps I will return her to Ignacioʹs tender mercies. He can have this hellish match set aside and wed her where he wills.ʺ
She studied the look of tormented hunger on his face and knew he lied. The pain stabbed her with killing intensity. ʺShe is no fit mate for the Night Wind. She will cause your death.ʺ
He smiled that devilishly blinding white smile. Like his green eyes, it was a reminder that he was Conal Quinnʹs son. ʺSomeone surely will cause my death.
Already I have cheated it too many times. Do not mourn too much for me, Morena.ʺ He stood up and took her hand, kissing the back of it in a light salute.
As she watched him walk from the room, the look on her face was no longer the vulnerable wistfulness it had been earlier. Now it was as hard as that of her dark Yaqui gods.
The ride to Texas would be hard on her. Already she was exhausted. He had planned to spend at least two more days here at Morenaʹs place, but now he saw how impossible that would be. Aching with the sexual frustration he had reined in so tightly on their journey from the capital, he might weaken and give in to Morenaʹs blandishments. ʺI will not use her as a substitute for what I desire,ʺ he muttered angrily.
Joaquín had wanted to punish Orlenaʹs treachery by showing cold indifference to her. He was certain the Spanish gallants in the City of Mexico had fallen over themselves in pursuit of her favors. But now his need to humiliate her was exceeded by his need to bed her.
ʺThis time there will be no subtle seduction, no gentleness,ʺ he swore through clenched teeth as he climbed the stairs to the room at the far end of the hall.
When Orlena awakened, the candle by her bedside had burned low. The hour was late. Again she had fallen asleep in her clothes. The wine and a full meal had done their work altogether too well. Looking down at Morenaʹs hideous, cast‐off dress, now a mass of wrinkles in addition to its ungainly fit, she began to unfasten the buttons angrily. ʺI shall at least sleep in a bed in comfort,ʺ she gritted out as she slid the gray linen over her hips and tossed it carelessly on a chair. The petticoats quickly followed. At least the sheer lawn undergarments fit, even if they were plain and well worn. Too small in the bust, indeed! She filled out the camisole just as well as that black‐haired bitch!
Having no nightrail, she decided to sleep in the pantalets and camisole. There was a wooden‐handled brush that looked to be clean on the bureau. Her hair was still tousled from her bath and faintly damp. Reaching for the brush, she struggled to untangle the dark golden mass.
Deep in concentration, she did not hear Joaquín silently open the door. He stood stone still, watching the rise and fall of her breasts through the gauze thinness of the camisole. Her spine was seductively arched as she raised her arms, working the brush through one long, tangled lock of hair, which she held away from her head with her other hand. Her thick lashes veiled her haunting eyes. He could feel the ache in his loins build to a mindless, hungry desperation, yet he remained rooted in the doorway, his breath swept away by her loveliness.
Sensing his presence, she jerked her head up. The brush dropped from her numb fingers as her eyes met his. Her lips mouthed the word no softly, then more forcefully as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
ʺGo to your mistress, Joaquín. Surely she meets your needs far better than I!ʺ
ʺI choose not to involve Morena in our private war,ʺ he replied calmly, continuing to walk toward her, stripping off his jacket and carelessly tossing it atop her dress. When he began to unfasten the studs from his shirt and pull it open, she groped across the bed for the brush, seized it, and hurled it at him. He ducked effortlessly as she swore an amazing oath.
ʺFor a highborn lady, you possess a low‐class vocabulary, Lioness,ʺ he said as he continued his strip. His shirt joined the pile of their clothing as he reached down and took off his soft leather shoes, then slid the hose from his feet. When he straightened up, Orlena had jumped clear of the bed and was edging toward the large porcelain water pitcher and bowl on the wash stand.
ʺDo not, or you will clean up every sliver with your bare hands,ʺ he warned.
ʺAll this time you have not touched me, you ignored me. Why now?ʺ she whispered hoarsely. ʹʹWhy not? You are my wife. I am your husband. Have you missed my attentions, Lioness?ʺ
ʺNo! You but play cruel games with me and I despise you for it!ʺ she cried, plastering her body against the rough adobe wall.
ʺSpeak not to me of cruel games, Doña Orlena! You are the deceiver who excels at them!ʺ With that, he placed his flattened palms against the wall as he pressed his body intimately along the length of hers, imprisoning her. His head lowered and he buried his face in her fragrant hair. Still damp and curling, it smelled of soap and her unique fragrance.
Orlena could feel his hot breath on her neck as his pelvis rotated crudely against hers. The slow, honeyed ache uncoiled low in her belly, unnerving her. She clenched her hands into fists, her nails biting into her palms in frustration as his seeking mouth found her bare throat, then trailed lower to her rising and falling chest. She was panting with want and hated herself for it! But his need was every bit as apparent. She could feel the hard probe of his erection straining through his tight breeches to press between her legs. Against her will, her thighs parted.
He laughed deep in his throat as one hand pulled roughly on her hair, turning her face up to meet the onslaught of his kisses. He savaged her mouth, forcing it open, invading with his tongue. As his lips molded to hers, his hips matched the thrusting rhythm of the deepening kiss.
Orlena rubbed her hands against the rough, white‐washed wall until her palms were bleeding, struggling to keep herself from responding to the white heat of his passion. Joaquín reached up and ripped the wispy camisole free of her breasts. The old fabric gave way easily, the only protest her gasp of dismay as his hand closed over one milky breast, gleaming in the moonlight. The pale pink tip hardened as his thumb stroked it. He gave a low, insinuating laugh as she tried to control herself, tried to pull back, knowing it was too late.
It had been too late when he first stood in the doorway with those hypnotic green eyes devouring her. Now he scooped her into his arms and flung her like a feather onto the rumpled bed.
ʺWould you not lose the pantalets as you did the camisole, remove them,ʺ he commanded as he unbuttoned his fly and worked the tight breeches down his long legs.
ʺThey are your mistressʹs cast offs. I care not,ʺ she whispered, refusing to look at his splendid nakedness. Even so, the image of his bronzed body with i
ts supple rippling muscles was emblazoned on her mind.
He was glad of her perverse refusal to obey his command, to give in to her own passions, he assured himself as he reached down and tore the thin cloth from her slim thighs. Looking down at the puckered points of her nipples, he could see the unmistakable evidence of her bodyʹs response to him. As he towered over her with one knee pressed into the mattress, a flush stole over her white skin. ʺIf I reach down and touch you . . . soʺhis hand rested tentatively on the curls between her legsʺ you will be wet and aching for me, Lioness.ʺ His fingers splayed, then pulled together as they traveled from the dark gold mound to dip between her nether lips.
Orlena arched and bucked at the raw, primitive pleasure, unable to continue any pretense of indifference. Rolling away from the fierce ecstasy of his touch was nearly impossible, but she did so, coming up on the opposite side of the bed, crouched on her hands and knees. Each breath was labored as she bit off the words, ʺGet out of here! Go to your Indian whore!ʺ
Grabbing a fistful of hair that hung over her shoulder, he yanked her back across the bed. ʺYou are my whore!ʺ He sank down on top of her, covering her body with his, driving his knee up between her legs as she writhed and kicked.
ʺSpread your legs for me,ʺ he whispered harshly as his hands pinioned her wrists above her head.
The breath was squeezed from her body as his weight bore down on her. The will to fight suddenly left her and she lay limp and exhausted. Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes and she turned her face away from his.
Joaquín sensed the change from fury to tears and the hatefulness that had been coiled tightly about his chest loosed. He released her wrists and massaged them gently as his mouth rained soft caresses over her tear‐streaked face.
She despised her weakness, crying foolish, womanish tears, surrendering so that he might humiliate and use herbetter that he raped her than this, his tenderness, perhaps his pity.
He nuzzled her ear, then his tongue, velvety soft, lapped at the teardrops as he crooned low words to her, soft love words in Spanish and Lipan. When he had finished laving away the tears, he kissed the corner of her mouth ever so delicately as he shifted his weight from her body onto his elbows. Her breasts were no longer flattened against him, but now the hardened nipples brushed against his chest hair with each breath.
Centering his lips on hers, he kissed her softly, touching the closed seam until she parted it. His tongue slid in and she could taste the salt of her own tears on it. When did her hands reach up to twine in his long shaggy hair? When did she arch her aching breasts against the rock wall of his chest? He deepened the kiss as he felt her response. Her tongue dueled with his now, touching the familiar places of his mouth, gliding over his strong white teeth. One hand slid down from his head to his back, glorying in the flexed muscles with their satiny film of perspiration slicking her path.
Joaquín moaned as his engorged shaft rubbed between her thighs. Her legs instinctively clamped together, imprisoning it as she writhed up and down, driving him wild with desire. This time when his knee spread her legs apart, she pulled him closer and he slid into the welcoming heat of her body. A blinding kaleidoscope of sensations rioted through his body as he began to drive in and out of her tight wetness.
Orlena thought she heard him murmur, ʺAt last, at last,ʺ but the words were indistinct and her own body, so long denied, clamored for more. She wrapped her legs about his narrow hips and rode with him. Her nails dug into his back, then slid up to sink into his shoulders as she followed the hard, rough rhythm of their mating. Her head thrashed back and forth in frenzied desperation as all too soon, she could feel the old familiar crestingold, yet each time wonderously new.
The completion began to build in waves, slowly at first, then faster and more intense until she could feel his shaft swell even more, joining her as he pumped his seed deeply inside her body.
Her anguished cry of ecstasy mingled with his ragged growl. Joaquín collapsed on top of her, his face buried in her tangled hair as she held him fast, unwilling to let reality intrude on the beautiful moment of unity. ʺYou will never leave me, Lioness,ʺ he finally whispered as he rolled away from her, pulling her to lie closely tucked against his side.
Feeling the comforting heat of his hard, long body cocooning her, Orlena stared sightlessly at the starry sky outside the window. No, it is you who will leave me, Night Wind.
Chapter 22
Morena Girón did not sleep well that night. After tossing restlessly in her lonely bed for hours, she arose to watch the sunrise. Joaquín often joined her in the courtyard. But this morning he was late, as she feared he would be.
Finally, at full daylight, he appeared in the doorway of Orlenaʹs room, looking relaxed, satiated. The driving hunger and coiled tension she had sensed in him the day before were gone. He had spent the night making love to his Spanish wife! And she had obviously pleased him. Escaping back to her room before she was seen, Morena swallowed back her tears. I had to know. Now what shall I do about it?
Orlena awakened, feeling the loss of her husbandʹs body heat. He was dressed and gone already. Perhaps that was just as well. She sat up and rubbed her head, recalling his anger and his passion last night. He had entered the room intent on rape, and yet the confrontation ended very differently than it began. She did not understand all that had happened, but she certainly did understand what she had done. Orlena Valdéz, casting aside all pride and shame, had welcomed him into her body, physically begged him to make love to her. And he had! Were they both mad?
After the first tender ecstasy, they had slept. Midway through the night, he had awakened her with soft caresses, pulling her lethargic body once more into his embrace. The second time she had not made even a token resistance, but melted sleepily, softly. Had she said she loved him? Probably. And with the sun, the Night Wind vanished. At the moment he was doubtless taking his morning meal with Morena.
ʺAt least he slept all night with me,ʺ she whispered with a small measure of grim satisfaction as she felt the slight warmth of the bed linens where his body had lain. She slid across the rumpled sheets and stood up, shivering in the cool morning air.
A knock sounded. Knowing Joaquín would not indulge in such a formality, she wrapped her naked body in one of the linens and walked over to open the door a crack. She did not want a servant to see her shredded undergarments or the disarray of the room!
The timid young Indian maid stood there with fresh towels and a change of clothing in her arms. Her face wreathed in a smile, she said, ʺYour husband sent me with these. Hot bath water is on its way. I will assist you, if you wish.ʺ
Seeing the doeskin tunic and leggings, once hated Apache garments she would have scorned, Orlena gratefully accepted them. The soft leather was velvety and warm, beautifully tanned and cut for her slim body. At least she would dress in comfort now. These clothes were far more flattering than Morena Girónʹs drab castoffs. Whatever his feelings, her husband no longer seemed intent on letting his mistress humiliate her.
Joaquín was as confused as Orlena. He had awakened with her silken hair floating across his face as she turned in her sleep. Quietly, he had slipped from the bed and dressed, noting the telltale signs of their passionate night. Clothing lay strewn across the floor, and the bed linens were more off than on the mattress. For all she had fought him at first, she had given in quickly. Of course, he had been so moved by her tears that his resolution to take her with unfeeling cruelty had lasted even less time than her resistance.
Orlena Valdéz might feel degraded, ashamed of her base physical hunger for a half‐casteʹs touch, but she had given up all attempts to hide her passion. It was as if no man had touched her since they were separated last year. Absurd! He dismissed the idea at once. The betrayal of his need for her disturbed him deeply, but what was done was done. They would ride for Texas this very day. Perhaps by the time he had finished with Conal Quinn, he would be able to quench his need for Orlena as well.
Joaqu
ín broke his morning fast with Morena. Telling her farewell was proving difficult. Even though he knew it was a blatant delay of his departure, he agreed to ride with her to meet some of the former slaves who now worked in her fields and orchards.
By the time they returned from the morningʹs journey, Joaquín could see Fray Bartolome tying his mule near a tall cottonwood tree. He turned angrily to Morena. ʺI did not wish him here. He has been trying to convince me to forgive my wife her treachery. He believes her innocent. Now that she is here with me, it will cause nothing but trouble, Morena.ʺ
She shrugged fatalistically. ʺThe priest comes and goes. I do not command him.
He does not command you. Perhaps he is here because of the school. I mislike his defense of her as much as you do!ʺ
Fray Bartolome called out, ʺIt has been too long, my young friend. You will not recognize Ana, she has grown so!ʺ
Joaquín dismounted, then helped Morena down. When he turned to embrace his old mentor, the priestʹs warming smile made him forget his guilt and misgivings.
Always it was good to see Bartolome.
ʺI will doubtless not recognize many of the children. You spoil and fatten them in your old age as you never did me when you were full of youthful zeal,ʺ Joaquín said jokingly as he hugged the big man.
ʺYou have been off in the wilderness for six months, and this is the welcome I get upon your return! I have come with news of several children sent to Hurtadoʹs mine, Morena,ʺ he said, turning to greet the handsome casta. ʺIt is perhaps good that our best rescuer has unexpectedly shown up. I feared we might not be able to find men to free them before they are brutalized.ʺ
Morenaʹs face lit up as she turned to Joaquín. ʺNow you cannot leave for Texas.
You must stay and help us. I will care for Orlena,ʺ she added defensively.
ʺOrlena? Here? With you?ʺ Fray Bartolome exclaimed. ʺWhat nonsense is this about going to Texas?ʺ
Casting a dark glance at Morena, Joaquín turned back to Bartolomeʹs smiling face. He sighed in resignation, saying, ʺYes, I have Orlena with me. I would have spared you the worry of knowing my plans. You already spend too many hours upon your calloused knees. Say your prayers for the children, Bartolome, not for us.ʺ
