Comanche Moon

by Virginia Brown

  Hawk slid one hand down to her belly, sliding his palm beneath the torn material of her gown, gathering her skirts up around her waist. She was heated silk beneath his fingers, hot and damp with need, and he dragged his hand through the tight nest of curls that hid her from him.

  Crying out, she bucked and heaved with renewed panic, and he caught her mouth with his and kissed her deeply, his tongue mimicking the sex act as she strained against him. When she was limp and quivering, he lifted his head to stare down at her with a raging need he couldn’t remember feeling so intensely before.

  Caught in a snare of her long hair and his hands, Deborah tried to interpret that steady gaze. His eyes had changed to the color of smoke, hot and gray as raw steel. New emotions raged inside her, battling with shock and fear. Somehow, her first resistance had melded into something else. Never had she dreamed he would make her feel anything but fear or revulsion, yet there had been a response to his touch that she couldn’t deny. Disbelief rendered her momentarily motionless. She lay still and helpless, watching his eyes—cold, clear eyes beneath a fan of thick, spiky lashes.

  What he was doing was similar to what Miguel had done, but there was a vast difference in how she responded. It was baffling. It was terrifying.

  He moved, and she felt the quick, cold slice of a knife whisper over her skin, then her gown just fell away from her in limp folds. Deborah couldn’t move. She felt his intent gaze on her, studying her naked body. A flush warmed her skin from her stomach to her eyebrows, and she knew that this was only the beginning of her humiliation. There was no compromise in the icy eyes watching her.

  A haze of tears mercifully blurred her vision when he rose to his knees over her and untied the leather thong that held his brief garment around his waist. Deborah closed her eyes as it fell away. That one brief glimpse was enough to acknowledge her worst fears, making her doubt that she would survive what he intended to do to her.

  For a moment she considered going for his knife, to use on him or herself. But she knew she couldn’t. Her situation had been reduced to the basics. She wanted to live, however badly he hurt her. An instinct stronger than herself and older than time made her lie still for him.

  Muttering something in the low, rough language that made no sense to her, he lowered his body back over her and spread her thighs apart with his knees. Deborah willed herself to remain limp. Perhaps it would make him gentle.

  But when he put his hand on her, raking his fingers through the tight nest of red-gold curls at the juncture of her thighs, she couldn’t help a sudden jerk. Oddly, his voice sounded almost tender when he said something to her again, and Deborah shuddered as he stroked her intimately. Would this never end? She felt helpless, exposed, humiliated.

  A choked sob caught in the back of her throat, and her body arched helplessly when his hand pressed inside her. It was like a knife-thrust, and her eyes flew open to stare up at him accusingly.

  There was an odd expression on her tormentor’s face, almost one of shock, and Deborah had the fleeting impression that she’d somehow surprised him before he withdrew his hand and sat back on his heels. He stared down at her without speaking, his chiseled features impassive again.

  She wished she dared cover herself; there was something so tense about him, almost as if he were uncertain, that she dared not move at all.

  Light caught in his dark hair, glittering in the sleek strands like trapped sunbeams, and Deborah saw his lashes flicker for a moment, brushing down over his eyes as if to hide his thoughts. Then he looked down at her again, growled something she was glad she didn’t understand, and rose in a swift, lithe motion.

  Deborah was caught by the stark beauty of his muscled body, the play of bronze skin and power as he moved to pick up his brief garment. She watched silently. His long hair swung forward in a gleaming fall that hid his face, and when he straightened, she flushed at the look he gave her. A faint half-smile touched the corners of his hard mouth.

  “Sua yurahpitu.” He said the words slowly, distinctly, as if to reassure her, and for some reason, Deborah’s fears began to fade. Maybe he wouldn’t harm her now. She wasn’t certain why he’d stopped, but gratitude made her nod slowly in reply to the questioning look he gave her.

  He bent, grasped a blanket from the neat stack at one side, and flung it over her. She grabbed it gratefully. He tied the strip of cloth around his waist again, picked up his knife, and left.

  Deborah stared after him. Her body ached from their struggle and his brief invasion of her, but she knew that there was much he could have done.

  Had wanted to do. Why had he stopped?

  Hawk wondered that himself. Why had he stopped? Because she was stil untouched there, still a virgin? He’d been too startled to react at first. Spotted Pony was obviously wrong about what he’d seen. That didn’t surprise him. In the chaos of a raid, many things could be misinterpreted. But she had said her husband was dead, and he knew that Deborah Hamilton was not the kind of woman to lie without reason. Perhaps she’d thought he would not hurt her if she could gain his sympathy, but that idea was as farfetched as the notion that she could be a married virgin.

  He didn’t understand it.

  And more—he didn’t understand why it had made a difference to him.

  Maybe he wasn’t as callous as he thought. Maybe there was a part of him that remembered the early lessons his mother had taught him long ago. Oh, so long ago. Too long to remember, he’d thought until today.

  Twelve years. Twelve years of riding, looking, running, and riding again.

  The only respite had been here, in the camp of his father, where he’d gained some acceptance at last. It had meant putting his white blood behind him, forgetting what he’d done and who he’d been, but he’d managed to do it. Not many in the camp had been inclined to challenge White Eagle’s son to prove himself, though there had been those warriors who had tested his strength.

  Tested his prowess as a man and the son of the chief. So far, he’d managed to prove himself.

  Yet even here, lost in the cool mountains of New Mexico, where no white man could find their camp, Hawk often questioned his own motives.

  Why was he here? He had another life in the white man’s world, one that had earned him a certain notoriety. But it had not eased that restless yearning inside him, that need for something that he couldn’t even name. Here, at least, he was not constantly badgered with choices.

  Until now.

  Until this one woman had come into his life and presented him with an unexpected choice.

  Hawk walked upstream, stripped, and went for a swim in the icy waters of the stream.

  “If you want her, my tua, take her.” White Eagle looked at his only son with a trace of amusement glittering in his dark eyes. “A man should not deny himself the comfort of a woman’s company. Especially that of a captive.”

  “If she were—” Hawk stopped and looked away.

  “If she were not white?” His father laughed softly. “You have strange requirements, Tosa Nakaai.” Hawk flinched. His father had used his name, a very personal, private thing to do. No Comanche would presume to use his name thusly, so White Eagle must be trying to make a point of the differences between their cultures. He looked away when his father spoke again.

  “Would you feel better if she were wia?” Hawk’s mouth tightened. The Mexican-Comanche women were available to all, unless taken to wife. No, his father knew very well that he would not feel better if Deborah were one of those women.

  “Kee!” he spat, and White Eagle shrugged.

  “Then take her. Make yourself feel better. It is only because of your past that you do not do so. If she were wia you would have already taken her.” He looked off toward the ridge of the mountain peaks gnawing at the darkening sky. “This one is weary of having you growl like the bear these past two days.

  Take her, and ease my ears.” The small branch he was whittling into a flute broke between his fingers, and Hawk tossed it aside. “She has never
known a man.”

  “Aiie.”

  There was a wealth of comments in that one exclamation, and Hawk almost smiled. White Eagle was not the most verbal of men. For him to offer this much advice was beyond his normal practice.

  “The woman is only a captive,” White Eagle said after a long moment of silence, and Hawk stiffened.

  That was true. For him to deny it would give her a more important status. For him to agree, would keep her such. He said nothing, and felt his father’s disapproval.

  Wind blew through the pines, and they swayed with a majestic dignity that only old trees exhibit, gently, as if caressed by the wind. Hawk closed his eyes and let the music of the pines seep inside him.

  “A long time ago,” his father began, “I took a white woman from her husband. It was not meant to be. I did not see what I was shown, or hear what was said. Many died. There was much trouble. Subetu.” Hawk opened his eyes. He knew what his father meant. It would cause trouble if he kept her and did not use her. There were others in the camp who watched her, young men who did not find her pale skin and hair of dark fire to be ugly. He saw them, and he knew what they would say if he did not make the woman his. Damn. His desire for Deborah grew more complicated everyday, and it was frustrating and irritating at the same time.

  He resisted an angry reaction, knowing White Eagle would be disappointed in him. It wasn’t the Comanche way to reveal that kind of emotion, especially not over a captive woman.

  His eyes shifted to his tipi, where Sunflower visited with Deborah. He should end that friendship before it went too far. There would be no good come of it, but he hated to deny his young sister anything that pleased her.

  And he saw the faint gratitude in Deborah’s eyes when she glanced at him, and knew that if anyone could ease her stay in the camp, it was Sunflower.

  But it was unfair. Things would not stay the same, and he knew that.

  And he must be the one to change them.

  Hawk rose to his feet in a smooth motion that gained his father’s attention, and their eyes briefly met. Then he strode in the direction of the tipi where Deborah waited.

  Chapter 5

  Afternoon light spilled through the triangular opening onto the hard-packed dirt floor, and Deborah gazed idly at the tiny dust motes swimming in the trapped sunbeams. She’d smoothed blankets and furs, hung clothes that she assumed were his from the poles, examined baskets lined along the walls, and braided her hair. Time still dragged in a slow pull that seemed like eternity.

  Sunflower had gone, and Deborah had the feeling that she had been forbidden to linger. There was a sweet shyness about the girl that made her wish they could be friends, but it was obvious that had been forbidden.

  Her thoughts drifted frequently to her arrogant jailer, and she found herself wondering about him. He’d not come back since that first afternoon, and she wondered why. She was grateful to be left alone, but curious as to the reason. Why were her emotions so contradictory? There was a perversity in her nature, she thought wryly, that she should definitely not cultivate at this time in her life. It could be more dangerous than she’d ever dreamed.

  Deborah smoothed the folds of skirt she wore, and felt the soft material drift through her fingers. Sunflower had brought her new garments, shyly, as if expecting to be rebuked. The bright cotton skirt and loose blouse had been accepted gratefully, and she had done her best to convey her appreciation to the girl.

  It felt strange to wear nothing but a skirt and blouse; none of the familiar underclothing hindered her movements, and she felt slightly guilty for enjoying the freedom. Though her freedom was restricted by being captive, she’d found surprising respite in the unusual state of leisure. She sat idly most of the time.

  Accustomed to being constantly busy, whether with sewing or mending or the supervision of household tasks, Deborah had first welcomed the cessation of activity. Now, however, it was beginning to pall. She was left with too much time to think, too much time to dread what she felt must be the inevitable.

  He would come again, would seek her out, and she would be helpless to refuse whatever he wished from her. His first actions remained indelibly etched in her memory, and when she caught glances of him from a distance, she flushed. He had not approached her again, but obviously chose to stay in another lodge. Tipis, they were called. There was another name for the dwellings, too, something like kahni, but it had been too hard for her to recall and so they’d settled on tipi. Sunflower had conveyed that to her, as well as several other terms she could understand. Being able to interpret her captors’ words would be a blessing, but most of their language still eluded her.

  Even more elusive was the man Sunflower had referred to as Tosa Nakaai. Deborah had no idea what it meant, or indeed, if it meant anything.

  Sunflower had endeavored to act it out for her, and she knew it had something to do with the sky and a bird, but she wasn’t certain what. Several choices had occurred to her, none of them particularly flattering.

  The arrogant blue-eyed Comanche had invaded more than her body that night, with his brief touch. He had invaded her mind, and was constantly intruding when she tried to concentrate on the more important hope of escape for her and Judith.

  She’d seen Judith once, from afar, and had not noticed any sign of abuse.

  Hopefully, her cousin was faring well. She prayed she would get to speak with her soon, so that she could find out for herself how she was doing.

  Deborah glanced at the opening of the tipi again, and saw—as she’d become accustomed to seeing—the passing of others outside. Children shrieked with laughter; dogs barked and growled, and she could hear the muffled laughter of women at work. Comanche women seemed to work constantly, scraping hides, cooking, gathering firewood, and tending children. She was certain there were many other duties as well. The men, she’d noticed, seemed to spend their time fashioning new weapons, telling stories, and probably planning new raids. They hunted, of course; plenty of meat drying on wooden racks attested to that. Comanche society seemed structured and well ordered to those born to it. To a frightened captive, that structure was menacing.

  Slaves were for the menial tasks and worked hard. The glimpse of her cousin bent low under huge bundles of firewood, her face dirty, her hair loose and tangled, had hurt. Judith did not look otherwise mistreated, but Deborah had no doubt that every person in the camp must have a function.

  Which meant that Tosa Nakaai would have a duty in mind for her, too.

  She shuddered. She could imagine what that duty would be. There had been a fierce hunger in his eyes that night, a hot fire that had burned her wherever his gaze touched. In the long night hours, she remembered it, remembered how he’d sparked an answering fire in her. The memories were as disturbing as the reality. And her body had burned and ached with an unfamiliar restlessness that made her wonder if the recent events had not deranged her in some way.

  When she closed her eyes at night, she kept remembering him as she’d last seen him, that magnificent body so overwhelmingly male and powerful and frightening, his eyes beneath the thick brush of his lashes taking her breath away. The contradiction of her thoughts bewildered her, and she knew that she was in danger of losing sight of her goal.

  Daylight still brightened the tree-studded valley when Deborah saw a shadow darken the opened flap of the tipi. She froze in the act of trying to re-weave a fraying reed basket. Her hands shook slightly as she recognized her visitor.

  Tosa Nakaai bent and ducked into the tipi. When he stood, his height made the interior suddenly seem much smaller. Indeed, his intimidating presence made the roomy tipi seem entirely too small for both of them.

  Deborah kept her gaze on the basket, afraid to look up at him. She sensed his gaze on her. She could almost feel the heat of him so close, and there was the slight scent of fresh air and woodsmoke that penetrated her frozen senses as she tried to ignore him.

  “Kima,” he said, and when she kept her head bent, he reached out to touch her li
ghtly on the head. “Nu kwuhupu.” Deborah inhaled deeply for courage and looked up at him as he towered over her. His face was shadowed by the light behind him, and she had an impression of anger mixed with uncertainty, which was confusing. Did she puzzle him as much as he did her?

  “Kima,” he said again, and tugged at her shoulder.

  She rose to her feet, knowing that to resist him would be useless and possibly dangerous.

  “I assume you want me to come with you,” she said in a calm tone.

  Perhaps if she exhibited no fear, he would be more likely to treat her gently.

  He backed to the flap and held it open, repeating, “Kima.” Frightened but determined, Deborah stepped out of the tipi and into the sunlight. She blinked at the glare and felt his hand on the small of her back.

  “Mia ranu,” he said roughly, which she assumed meant she was to walk.

  She cast him a quick glance.

  “Where?” Shrugging her shoulders to indicate doubt, she half-turned to face him, but he caught her by one shoulder and turned her back around. He gave her another push, and a spurt of anger made her incautious. “Idiot,” she mumbled as she began to walk, wincing at the rocks cutting into her bare feet.

  “How am I supposed to understand your language? You sound like two tomcats in a fight when you talk—oh!” His hard hand seized her by the nape of the neck, and he growled, “Keta tekwaaru,” so harshly that she knew he must mean for her to be quiet.

  Deborah’s quick, rebellious anger subsided as swiftly as it had risen, and she remained silent as her captor walked her through the camp. Tall grasses waved in patches, and she could see the glittering ribbon of water where Sunflower took her to bathe in the morning and evening. Trees shifted in the constant wind, whispering leaves rustling like secrets on the air currents.

  People stared curiously as she passed them, and Deborah kept her gaze steady and outwardly calm, though she was raging with uncertainty inside.