by Martha Hix
“Aren’t the three of you identical?”
“So they say. But how do you know about Olga and Margaret?”
“Competent kidnappers do their research. I found out you sisters look exactly alike . . . except for a slight deviation in the shade of your eyes.” Past a curl of smoke, he winked. “Now tell me–what makes you think you’re not as pretty as they are?”
Maisie had said she was pretty. “Ye’re bonny as heather on the banks of the Loch Ness,” she’d said over and over, “and there’s a grand beauty t’ ye, down deep.” Even Maisie had thrown up her arms and given a gasp of exasperation when Charity had packed her clothes for the trip to Ian.
Oh, Maiz, I miss you.
“Charity . . . ? What about your sisters?”
“Everyone comments on their looks. ‘Olga is so lovely in her serenity.’ ‘That Margaret, she’s as smart as she is beautiful.’ People say those things all the time.”
“What do they say about you?”
“ ’Why can’t she keep her mouth shut?’ ”
Tossing back his head, he laughed.
Offended, Charity said, “You don’t have to agree with them!”
“Don’t put words in my mouth, angel. I’m not agreeing with other people at all. The way I figure it, a man would never be bored around you.” He grew serious and tossed his cigarette into the fire. “And I think you’re highly clever. I’ve got the bruises to prove it. Furthermore, you are beautiful. I’ve never seen such beautiful hair. Or eyes. And you haven’t got a feature to be ashamed of.”
Embarrassed at his praise, she ducked her chin and popped another fig into her mouth.
From the corner of her eye, she watched as he reached for his cup of coffee. If the situation were different–if he wasn’t holding her for ransom and no telling what else–she might have been tempted to remark on his appeal.
Curious about his motives, she asked, “Why are you in such desperate straits that you need to extort money?”
Shaking his head, he glanced toward the heavens. “Never gives up, does she?” he muttered, then shifted his position and sat Indian-style.
All sprawl-kneed like he was, how could Charity not gawk at him? Her eyes lowered to the soft breechclout draping between his legs. She would have to have been blind as Olga not to notice how the supple buckskin highlighted his hard male planes. Oh my, Charity’s face felt flushed, almost as if she had a fever.
Gads!
Gulping, she pulled herself together and back to conversation. “You don’t have to lower yourself to criminal means, Hawk. You could get a job. Why, as strong as you are, I’ll bet you’d make an excellent blacksmith.”
“Think I’m pretty strong?” A look of hawk-got-the-prey spanned his longish face of high cheekbones and sensuous lips.
“Of course you’re strong.” And handsome. She tried to divert her attention from the purely physical. “Can you read and write?”
“We’d better sleep now,” he said and poured coffee grounds into the fire.
Poor thing. He was illiterate. And she had embarrassed him, she figured. That was why his face had turned to the night’s shadows. “Sleep is a good idea,” she said, eager to change the subject. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take the wagon bed.”
“I mind. You’ll sleep beside me. Right here on the ground.”
“I can’t sleep on the ground,” was her indignant reply. “I’ve never slept on the ground and I don’t intend to start now.”
“The grasses are soft, spoiled rich girl. And we’ve plenty of blankets. You won’t suffer.”
Why argue the “spoiled rich girl” part? She had been spoiled, she had been rich, although, at barely twenty, she was no longer a girl. Rich, spoiled, broke, or desperate, she was what she was, so why try to disabuse his notions? “But I will suffer,” she protested. “I’m aching all over.”
“Did you hurt yourself?”
“Of course I did.” She liked what she heard in his deep, sonorous voice. “Last night, when I fell, I hurt, why, just about every bone in my body.” This was a bit much; she had no grievous injuries, after all. But she did enjoy seeing the look of concern on his face. “Remember?”
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“I’m saying it now.”
His visual canvass went from her head to her toes and back again. “Do you have cuts that need tending?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I’d better take a look. You could get sick from an untended wound.”
“Would it matter if I got sick?” She laughed nervously. “Oh wait a minute, I forgot–of course it would matter. You need me for the booty.”
“Right. Only for the ransom.”
“I’ve got to give you some credit, Hawk. I’m glad you didn’t lie.” Like Ian had. “Liars are the scum of the earth in my estimation.”
Hawk smiled a tight, enigmatic smile. “I’m glad something about me pleases you. Now, lie down.”
Ye lie down with dogs, ye get fleas. How many times had Maisie said that to Charity? Don’t be thinking about her. “Hawk, I will not sleep with you.”
“I said, you’ll have the soft grasses and plenty of blankets. You won’t suffer.”
Whining a bit–it had sometimes worked with her family—she pointed out, “But, Hawk, I’ve always been a restless sleeper.” She eyed the suspended end of the manacle. “I’ll be uncomfortable with my wrists tied together. Will you please leave this the way it is? I promise I won’t run off.”
He studied her for a minute, then casually picked up his knife to run a thumb down its edge. “You’ll sleep on the ground. And you’ll sleep with your wrists together. End of discussion.”
A scathing remark was on the tip of her tongue, but she quelled it. She wanted to live to see morning’s light. So, once more the dangling manacle was locked to her free wrist.
Afterward, he placed blankets near the dying fire, then pulled her down to the pallet. Yanking one of the covers over his bare shoulders, he turned his back. Within moments, she heard the soft cadence of his sleeping breath.
She was restless. The ground was wet from dew; it soaked the covers. Gusts of night air feasted on her flesh. Her teeth chattered; she shivered. And this was no soft mattress. The ground was uneven and somewhat rocky, and all of it dug into her arms, her back, her hips, her legs. A bundle of misery–that’s what she was.
For hours she listened to distant creatures on the prowl and howl. And she must have counted a million stars. Then she recalled Hawk’s kiss of the night before . . .
Over and again, she made the cumbersome effort to roll and toss.
“Be still,” Hawk grumbled in his sleep.
“But I’m uncomfortable.”
She heard him sigh in exasperation. “You’ll get used to the Indian way of sleeping,” he said.
“Get used to? How long do you intend to keep me?”
“Till after your family pays the ransom.”
“When . . . ? Have you approached them about it?”
“Your papa will know soon enough.”
“Oh.”
She had to admit that she’d been holding on to the hope that Hawk’s was some bizarre scheme hatched by Papa to bring her back into the fold. Not so. She blinked her suddenly burning eyes. How silly, harboring such a desire. Even if Papa were pining for the sight of her, he wouldn’t have sent an Indian to pluck her from the streets of Laredo!
“I ... I’ve told you. He won’t pay.” Hurt clutched at her chest. “What will you do with me then?”
Hawk sighed again, rolled to face her, then pulled her to him. He raised himself up to slant his lips over hers. “It all depends,” he murmured before stealing a kiss that lingered and lingered.
Charity wanted to protest. At first. But his mouth made magic on hers. The brush of his hair against her collar elicited a shiver of excitement within her. His hands, oh, such warmth. Her own crossed hands were caught between her breasts and his chest, and her fingers flex
ed over his silver pendant . . . settling on the smooth, wall-strong planes of his naked flesh.
It was wicked, the passion she felt. Olga would be shocked! But she had never sought her sister’s approval, so why worry about it now? Besides, making love with a savage brought back her daydreams of old. Daydreams of Fierce Hawk. But Hawk wasn’t her Osage brave. Here and now, it didn’t matter. Hawk was Hawk. And, dear providence, these magical hands, these blazing lips . . .
She forgot how uncomfortable she had been just moments before.
When Hawk finally released her to stare into her eyes, he said, “I want you, sweet Charity.”
“I know.” She felt the physical indication of his need, hard at her thigh. Somehow a modicum of sense overtook her. “But I ... Oh, Hawk, don’t do this to me.”
“Why? Because you don’t want me?”
What did she want, besides her freedom? At the moment, she had no idea. But she knew that everything flowing hot through her body shouted for this man. Yet . . . While she had done many horrid things in her life, and while her reputation lacked a lady’s credibility, she believed in keeping herself pure for marriage. The man for her would be motivated by love and acceptance, not greed, and they would learn about man-woman things at the same time.
Olga–and Mutti and Maisie–would be proud.
Marriage? What was wrong with her? Her prospects were dim. Even if she got free of Hawk, she still had to answer to the law, and smuggling was a hanging offense.
Don’t think about it. She wasn’t swinging from a rope, not yet.
“Don’t you want me?” Hawk repeated and traced his finger down her jaw to her throat.
Her attention riveted to his touch and her body’s response, she didn’t think answering was possible. She swallowed hard and breathed deeply. “I know nothing about you. Except for a name. And for all I know, you could be making it up.”
“I’m not.”
“What other names do you have? Is Hawk your first or last name?”
“I’m an Indian, remember? We aren’t named as you whites.”
“Where are you from? All the Indians hereabouts–except for a few renegades, of course–live on reservations.”
“My people consider me a renegade.”
“Who are your people?” She thought of all the tribes still talked about in Fredericksburg. “Are you part Comanche? Kickapoo? Apache?” She studied him. “You are most certainly part white. There are certain elements of your features that don’t look as Indian as the renegades I’ve seen.”
“I am all Indian.”
Her tongue rested for a moment, but her curiosity did not subside. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Charity, I’ve taken you for ransom. You’ll not be getting a life story that you could turn over to the law.”
She wiggled away from him. “Then don’t expect to have carnal knowledge of me.”
He chuckled. “Is that the ticket to ‘carnal knowledge’ of you? Just a few vital elements to my wicked life? I could tell you many things about me. But how would you know if they’re true?”
Picking up on his method of ending conversations, she ordered, “Oh, go to sleep.”
His hand trailed along the column of her throat, his thumbnail moving upward to outline the curve of her lower lip. The intensity of his gaze took Charity aback . . . yet she felt her passions building anew.
“Love me to sleep, Hellcat Angel.”
Chapter Eight
Like a child tempted with a bonbon, Charity yearned to surrender to Hawk’s plea of loving him to sleep. With his fingers cupping and kneading her breast, with his leg nudging between hers, she felt wholly weak of will. What would Olga do at a time like this? “I’d never consent to anything of the sort.”
“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
“I–I mean it,” she squeaked, barely noticing as the campfire popped and died.
One hand moved to scoot her skirts up, and Hawk’s fingers stroked the crook of her knee. “What did it take for Ian Blyer to get between your legs?”
Who? It took a moment to recall just exactly who Ian Blyer was, for she could hardly breathe, much less think, with Hawk caressing her the way he was. “Uh, oh, my g-goodness. He never asked for anything more than a kiss. He’s too much of a gentleman.”
“Gentleman-fool, if you ask me,” Hawk whispered low in his throat. “A man would have to be a fool not to want all you can give.”
His praise, base though it was, excited her, and she smiled. No man had ever acted as if she was driving him wild before.
Hawk’s fingers pressed into her thigh. “Would you have given more . . . if Blyer had asked?”
“No.”
“Somehow I think you speak the truth.” He was silent for a moment before he asked, “Has anyone ever had you?”
“No.”
Hawk muttered some sort of something, probably an Indian oath. He tossed to his back and ran a palm down his face. “I suppose I ought to be glad.”
“Meaning?”
“It means I ought to keep my hands off you.”
“Ought to? Are you forgetting last night? I asked you to respect my virtue.”
She thought about her actions. A lady wouldn’t have given him so much as a kiss, much less liberties over her flesh. Her kinswomen had advised as much. Well, no one had ever called Charity a lady, but . . . “You will treat me like a lady.”
“Charity, has anyone ever gotten the last word with you?”
“Don’t criticize me.” Good gravy, why did she take this opportunity to gaze upon male perfection limned in the moonlight? Mmm, she liked what she saw. “I don’t like you criticizing me.”
“Sweetness, I–”
“Hellcats aren’t sweet.”
“Sometimes you are.” He turned his head toward her; her breath stopped at the starlit sight of brown eyes and a hawkish yet soft expression. Before he stared at the sky again, he said, “Such as a few minutes ago, when we were kissing.”
“We’re getting off the subject of respect.” Had her wrists been free, she would have gotten to her feet and parked her hands on her hips. “I want to know something. Since you seem to have no intention of honoring my request for respect, exactly when are you planning to ravish me?”
“That sounds like an invitation.”
“It’s rude to twist words.” She sighed and maneuvered to face him. “Please tell me what your plans are.”
“There may be ravishing, though I don’t think much of the term. Lovemaking, I’d call it.”
“One doesn’t make love to someone whom one plans to k-kill ... does one?”
“Kill?” He chuckled, the motion crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Charity, it never was, and never will be, my intention to take your life.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He punched the rolled blanket that served as a pillow. “Now go to sleep.”
She grinned. What a relief! He wasn’t going to divest her of her scalp. Actually, she’d pretty much come to that conclusion during dinner. All he wanted was loot, and lovemaking. Of course he would be foiled in both cases.
Be that as it may, this kidnapping had turned out nicely; his absconding with her, a blessing in disguise. Laredo was at least two days in the distance. And each day put more miles between herself and her crime–not to mention Ian Blyer. Plus, she would have time to consider exactly how she would avoid Papa, and how she’d get out of the legal mess she was in.
She had been in worse situations.
But what would she do, once she was free of this one? Paris seemed a good choice. She had always loved the City of Lights. And there was Madrid. Charity had fallen in love with Spain on a trip to visit Olga and Leonardo. Paris or Madrid, she could make a new start.
She chose not to fret about how she would get passage across the Atlantic, or about how she would make a living once there. Those were problems better settled another time—such as when she got her freedom.
Life, all of a sudden, a
ppeared rosy.
Benevolence coursed through her. “Hawk . . . I’m changing my mind about you. You’re going to think I’m crazy, but I like you. There’s something infinitely strong and trustworthy about you. Isn’t that peculiar, my thinking? You do hold me against my will, after all. But, isn’t it strange, I can’t imagine giving myself to anyone but you. That’s really very peculiar, I think. You see, I have an aversion to men interested in my papa’s money. I wish we could have met under different circumstances. Do you think me much too bold to admit such a thing?”
No reply met her admissions. None except for... Why, of all the nerve! He was snoring to beat the band.
Charity had been missing three days, and Ian Blyer was at his wit’s end. Perspiration slid down his spine; his hand chopped the air in a gesture of frustration. He’d thought the angles were covered: keeping her from employment, then holding her crime over her head. He had thought.
Where was she? How had the chit managed to flee Laredo?
“Sit down, Ianito. You make me uneasy.”
Ignoring the conspirator he’d summoned an hour ago, Ian paced the worn rug of his father’s town house. He stopped when Maria Sara Montana asked, “With your gambling losses high, why didn’t you keep the smuggling money to pay your debts?”
“I took the biggest gamble of all. I gambled that Charity would turn to me in her desperation. Then I would have control of the McLoughlin fortune.”
The bells of St. Augustine Church pealed through the balcony’s open doors; the calls of a street peddlar floated up to the second floor; the dankness of the muddy Rio Grande filled his nostrils. “Charity could have been my ticket out of here,” he lamented.
“You cut a pathetic figure,” Maria Sara snickered. “I almost pity you.”
He would have been outraged at her remarks if he didn’t himself believe that they were true. In every way he had botched his grand plans of becoming as rich as a sheikh of Araby. He must get himself under control. “Charity will be my ticket out of Laredo.”
“You have seen many schemes fall by the wayside. I would think that experience might have taught you to give up your futile quests.”
