Bonds, Parris Afton

by The Flash of the Firefly

  But her invective made no difference as she felt herself dropped on the lumpy mattress, felt the long, hard body imprison her own. But when Brant's lips sought hers, she twisted her head, first to one side then the other. His fingers tangled in her hair, fixing her head beneath his. And his kiss suffocated her, slowly drowning her. She struggled against him with the last of her strength, yet his mouth continued to devour her, to kill what resistance remained. When she went limp, his lips released hers.

  "Your heart's beating like a frightened rabbit's," he whispered, almost wonderingly.

  As her breath slowly returned, Anne's eyes sought the dim face above her. Her voice was as bitter as the peyote he had once fed her. "A trapped rabbit facing death."

  "Death isn't what I had in mind."

  His calm assurance was too much. "Let me go," she begged. "My parents―Colin―they would pay you well for my safe return."

  At once Anne realized her error as Brant's fingers dug into her arms. "I've told you once before that money is useless out here!"

  But she knew it wasn't just the mention of money that had angered him. And she seized upon the knowledge as a weapon. "You can't stand it, can you? That Colin's the gentleman―and you aren't. Why, he's more of a gentleman than you could ever hope to be!"

  The muscles in his jaw flickered, and Anne knew she had succeeded, had driven him beyond his usual dispassionate control. But before she could twist away, his hands came up to tear at the low-cut blouse, ripping it down to its center. Her breasts tumbled free, and she saw the gleam of desire that heated the brown eyes until his fierce gaze seemed almost to scorch her skin.

  Despite his weight, Anne used the remainder of her strength to jerk away, frantically shoving her knees upwards. Too late she found her skirt had ridden above her hips, laying bare the lower half of her body. "It seems I've misjudged your eagerness for resistance," Brant sneered.

  Anne's fingers came up to rake his face, and his hand caught her wrist in a painful grip. "You lout―you swine!"

  "Have it as you will!" he said harshly, forcing her hand back on the pillow beside her head.

  And he methodically began to rape her, shucking his pants even as he savagely shoved her legs apart. At first Anne knew a momentary thrill of triumph as he plunged inside her. Like the unpleasant times of sexual intercourse she had had to endure with Pa-ha-yu-quosh, she would do the same now with Brant. Lie impassive beneath the man, affording him as little pleasure as possible.

  But Brant would not even grant her the small victory, for unlike Pa-ha-yu-quosh, the man above her took delight in her woman's body. In her breasts that were as tender and firm as ripe muskmelons, in the soft hollow of her neck that breathed the sweet fragrance of jasmine that was peculiar to Anne alone, and between the long, supple thighs whose skin texture was incredibly as smooth as silk.

  Everywhere his kisses burned paths of desire that mingled with outrage, yet Anne was helpless―reduced to a quivering instrument on which his sure hands played as expertly as Professor Bern played his violin.

  She gasped and twisted and moaned, but there was no escaping his force of passion that at last drove her to join him on a wave's crest of unbearable pleasure. She was swept up, up―and when Brant ultimately brought her to her release, she discovered the secret to her own femininity in the whirlwind of fulfillment and cried out in wonder.

  Brant lay alongside of Anne. His shaggy head propped on one hand, he studied the girl-woman before him. He frowned as her gentle breathing of sleep came to him. He must have been out of his mind to have taken her like he did. He had let the tequila get to him ...and let her get to him. After all, she clearly belonged to Donovan―or the Irishman wouldn't have arranged for her husband's death ...or was she in on the plot also?

  And yet, did it matter? If he were completely honest with himself, as he had always prided himself on being, he would admit that he had wanted her all along. But, Christ's thorns, he had never intended to become this involved with the little vixen, had never intended to keep her with him this long! He would have to let her go soon―or else she would make more of a fool of him than he already was.

  He looked down at the thick lashes which lay upon her full cheek bones like blotches of ink, hiding the gray eyes that had for so long flashed their contempt at him. Eyes as gray and mysterious as the Spanish moss that draped the oaks. She puzzled him, this woman with the regal bearing of an Eastern socialite and the wild spirit of a Comanche squaw. He had had both―and had wanted neither. And this one ...this Anne Maren with the red-geld hair that fanned across the sheets like spilt sherry, he would rid himself of her also. But first ...

  His sun-browned hands buried themselves in the silken mass of hair, and Anne's lids raised slowly to the dirty streaks of dawn's light through the room's one window―and to the wicked gleam in Brant's eyes.

  Her voice, textured like honey, drifted up to him. "Brant..."

  Anne stretched out her hand to encounter the emptiness. Only the indentation in the mattress told her that last night had not been a dream―a dream perpetrated by too much tequila. Her fingers stole back to her temples, massaging the dull, nagging ache there.

  What nagged even more was the reflection of her behavior the night before. It mattered not that Brant had taken advantage of her, had indeed raped her―what else could she expect of a man of his kind who lived on the edge of a wild frontier all his life? What did astound her was the fact that she had actually found pleasure in his love-making―if one could call it that, she thought with a grimace.

  Yet, like Brant, she was coldly honest with herself; she could not deny that she had enjoyed his arrogant advances as if he were truly her husband ...that in spite of the man's unrefinement she had found gratification of her passionate temperament with him in that basic physical act of nature.

  And it was that, she told herself fiercely. It was a physical act performed by even the crudest of animals. That, and no more. Evidently even Brant had recognized the fact, for, having taken his pleasure, having satiated his desires, he had departed as carelessly as a rogue dog.

  Anne grabbed up a pillow and threw it against the door. "Bastard," she swore just as the knock came at the door.

  She yanked the rumpled sheet up to shield her nakedness. "Who is it?"

  "Pepe, señora." It was a child's voice. "Con su desayuno―your breakfast."

  "You've the wrong room," Anne called back. "I didn't order anything."

  "El Señor Brant did―before he left," came the patient reply.

  "Come in, then." Anne watched from the bed as the thin olive-skinned boy opened the door, balancing the tray in one small hand, and crossed to the night stand. In spite of his darker coloring, his sweet face with the enormous raisin-black eyes reminded her much of Fritz, and she was at once saddened, wondering what had become of the orphaned boy. But she managed a smile for the youth before her and a "gracias," one of the few Spanish words she knew.

  The boy drew forth a folded piece of paper from his pants pocket. "Señor Brant, he wished me to give you this."

  "Gracias, Pepe," she said and took the paper, wishing she had a coin to tip him. But the boy apparently seemed satisfied and flashed her a wide grin as he closed the door behind him.

  Anne unfolded the note to read the heavy scrawl. I've other business. Don't leave the room―and this time try to mind. Brant.

  Anne wadded the note in her hand. So, the clod could write! She ignored the glass of najarada and the corn tortilla heaped with beans and cheese and bounded from the bed. Her long legs paced the room in angry strides. Just what was she supposed to do, she wondered, while Brant went about his business? Wait patiently like a kept mistress? Back and forth her bare feet padded across the hardwood floor.

  And worse, she thought, what if the rogue didn't return? Why should he, indeed? He had accomplished his purpose―to locate this Flores. The fact that he had trailed Flores to Iron Eyes' camp and found her also was only an added break to his lucky streak. Lord, but he had the l
uck of a born gambler. She could just imagine that sardonic smile of his when he gave Colin the news he had found her―and had possessed her.

  Sweet Jesus, what would Colin think? How could he feel anything but contempt for her if he had the slightest inkling of the life she had led in the intervening months―and there was not the least doubt but that Brant would take great pleasure in informing Colin that she had been his mistress.

  Anne crossed to the window and looked down upon the crowded, dusty plaza. Under the hot, late afternoon sun the vendors hawked their wares of colorful wool blankets, clay pottery, and vegetables and plucked fowl. Beneath the shaded stucco portals women flirtatiously shielded their faces with their rebozos, and men with fierce mustaches responded with a sweep of their wide sombreros. A pack of a hundred mules crossed the plaza before the cathedral, churning up the dust. But Anne saw none of this.

  Planning, her teeth chewed on her thumb. In spite of the fact that Brant had several good reasons to dump her, she knew he would not. Brant was the predator. While he had her―and wanted her―he would use her. And there was not a thing she could do to prevent it. She was alone in a strange hotel―without money―without a friend. Unless she could count Rafael And, if it came down to it, Anne felt Rafael's greater loyalty would probably be given to Brant. And Ezra, no doubt the same.

  But she could not stay there and play Brant's whore. And that was what she was―despite the wedding ceremony performed by Iron Eyes. Her gaze fell wryly on the healing scar on the back of her hand. Just how long would Brant use her before he turned her over to someone else? After all, hadn't he told her Colin has asked only that he find her?

  She would be damned if she would wait there for Brant's return like some sacrificial lamb. Some way, somehow, she would get word to Colin, or if that failed, make her way to him if she had to walk every mile of the way. The prospect of cheating Brant of his reward money brought a spiteful smile to her lips.

  Anne whirled and crossed to the mound of clothing beside the bed. The skirt was still serviceable. But the blouse―Anne held it up before her, noting with a muttered oath the rent from neckline to hem. Well, there was nothing she could do for it now, with no needle or thread. She'd just have to keep the rebozo wrapped tightly about her.

  When she was dressed and her unruly hair tied back at the nape of her neck, she slipped from the room. She paused at the landing, her hand gripping the cold, polished wooden railing with uncertainty. From below came the loud, coarse laughter of the saloon's first customers, already consuming the fiery mescal and spending their money at the monte tables though it was still some hours away until evening.

  If she could but get past the saloon without attracting attention. Then she had only to make her way to the Cathedral. Surely the padre there would help her. Could find a place for her to stay until she could get word to Colin.

  Yet she had hardly descended the last step when the bar doors swung open and a beefy vaquero reeled into the hotel lobby. Too late, Anne shrank back against the wall, hoping he had not noticed her.

  "Aye, aye, aye," he said thickly, lurching at her. "Mira la novilla!"

  Her hands pushed against the leather-vested chest, and the rebozo she clutched before her dropped open. "No!" she gasped. "I'm not what―"

  The red-rimmed eyes of the vaquero widened at the display of the creamy globes of flesh. The moist red lips, almost lost in the food-stained beard, grinned like a weasel's. "Qué pasa, mujer? You entertain the others upstairs―why not me?"

  Anne closed her eyes against the powerful reek of alcohol and stale sweat but opened them when the large hands seized each breast brutally. She shoved at him with all her strength. "I'll call the manager if you don't―"

  The vaquero smashed her up against the wall with an obscene laugh, showing two missing teeth. "Him?" He jerked his head toward the hotel's counter where the little man with wire-rimmed glasses cowered. "He is paid to find you putas." The vaquero's hand groped for her crotch. "You spread your legs for them, puta, you spread them for Angel."

  "She spreads them only for me, Angel."

  It was Brant's voice―steely and razor-edged with danger.

  The vaquero turned slowly, and Anne looked past his shoulder. Brant stood in the center of the lobby, legs slightly apart. Behind him were Rafael and Ezra. And at the barroom doors men in tall beaver hats and sombreros stood.

  But Anne's gaze was fixed on Brant. He wore a nut-colored shirt, matching the pale-brown of his eyes that gleamed lethally beneath the black, wide-brimmed hat. There was a deceptive casualness to his stance and the way his hand rested easily by his side―near the pistol at his right hip. She noted with a detachment born of shock the way the black pants, tucked into high-topped boots, molded the muscle-corded legs.

  "Ah, señor―I do not see su marca on her."

  The reckless slant of Brant's lips told Anne the fight had nothing to do with her now. It was more than the challenge between two men for possession of a woman. It was the primeval urge to conquer, to kill. The scent of blood already permeated the air. Excitement electrified the spectators. Here was Death. Raw. Crude. But holding each person there as spellbound as the chilling, glassy-eyed fix of the cobra.

  "Gentlemen," the manager squeaked. "Can't this matter be settled outside?"

  As if the bearded vaquero before her suddenly sensed the deadly intent of the man across the room from him, he tensed. "You first, indio." His voice when he spoke was terse and thin-edged. "I follow."

  Brant nodded, turning back indolently toward the hotel door. The man called Angel moved then with an incredible speed that seemed nothing but a blur to Anne. Stepping to the side, his hand whipped at his gun. There was a deafening explosion. The stench of the gunpowder clouded the room.

  Anne looked unbelievingly from her bloodsplattered clothing to Brant, who stood still with knees slightly bent. The smoke curled upward from the pistol in his right hand. At her feet the vaquero's body jerked spasmodically, then went limp. She screamed then, a deep guttural scream that encompassed all the horror she had experienced since the raid at Adelsolms. The terror, the pain, the fear poured forth in scream after scream, to be silenced abruptly by the sharp slap of Brant's palm. Anne's head jerked backwards.

  "Cover yourself," Brant told her harshly.

  Carelessly, he stepped over the body, pulling her after him up the stairs. The door slammed behind them, and Anne faced him, stunned. Until she met the murderous glint in his eyes. She backed to the door. "You little bitch, you don't care what trouble you cause, do you? Or who get's killed, as long as you get your way." He advanced on her.

  Anne's arms crossed protectively before her as if to ward off another blow. Brant laughed softly. "You paraded yourself downstairs for the customers, sweet...so you can damn well do the same for your husband!"

  He tore the rebozo from her. And when Anne tried to bolt, he jammed his knee between her legs, pinning her against the door. His mouth fastened cruelly on hers, and his fingers dug into the soft skin of her shoulders. Her senses swam. Everything about her protested, and yet she did not pull free. What was the use, she wondered dimly, to fight him? He always won. Her knees buckled, and Brant swung her up in his arms.

  But when he lowered her to the bed, Anne rolled across to the other side, springing to her feet. "No, Brant Powers! You'll not have me so easily. I'll not be your whore!"

  He moved around the bed to her. Yet she held her ground. Her hands clenched into fists. "You'll have to rape me," she told him when he stood looking down at her with a smile that held no warmth.

  "A man never rapes his wife, Anne. Now spread your legs for me."

  XVIII

  With the same mixture of fascination and repulsion with which Anne had spied upon the voodoo rites of Barbados she now watched Brant as he tossed his pistol on the night stand and casually began to shed his clothing.

  In the waning light of day his tattooed face resembled the painted one of the obeah doctor, and as he came toward her in purposeful s
trides Anne could not restrain a shudder. "Damn you!" she whispered when he took her in his arms. "I'll make you sorry you ever laid eyes on me!"

  Brant laughed ruefully and tilted her face up to him. "That you've already done, Annie."

  She fought him then. Biting, scratching, snarling like one of the Texas panthers. And all the time his mocking face danced above hers. He was merciless, pinning her to the bed, shoving aside her entangling skirts. Anne opened her mouth to scream, and his lips clamped over hers. Her head twisted from side to side but there was no escaping the cruelty of the kiss that seemed to drug her like an opiate. And when her struggling ceased, he took her. It was a cold, violent act that in no way resembled the passion of the night before. Anne lay there without flinching, affording Brant as little pleasure as possible, as his body ruthlessly claimed possession of hers.

  However, against her will her traitorous body slowly responded to the demands of his. No words were spoken. None were needed. There was only the rise and fall of the two of them on the waves of raw desire. Their breaths came in ragged gasps; their entwined bodies drenched with sweat as their passions mounted toward violent consummation. And through it all there were always Brant's whispered words of sex―in English and Spanish and Comanche, drumming in Anne's ears like voodoo drums, drowning out all thought of everything so that there existed only the two of them.

  Afterwards there was always the tenderness that Brant displayed, holding her close to him, as if gentling a mustang he had broken. This, above all else about him, Anne found astonishing. It was something to which she had been unaccustomed. But instead of the passiveness that follows the release of passion's culmination, she felt instead' a growing anger―at her body's betrayal, at the woman she had become.

  She shut out the sulfurous eyes that watched her and visualized instead the twinkling clear-green eyes of Colin. But when she tried to summon the rest of his face, it receded in the well of tears that slowly filled her eyes. "Colin," she half-whispered, trying to bring back all that was lost to her.