No Other Man

by Shannon Drake

  Suddenly he was in motion again, coming around the table. Skylar quickly circled away from him. The table wasn't big enough. She wasn't fast enough. His fingers caught her wrist, and he drew her around to crash against his body.

  "Baltimore, eh? Tell me, Lady Douglas, do you come from a family deeply Southern at heart? Have I come upon a belle who wouldn't dream of swilling whiskey straight? I don't believe so. I think you're tough as nails. Have a swallow."

  She closed her eyes briefly. She could be done with this. She could agree to his annulment, give him no more reason to taunt her.

  She took the bottle from him. Took a sip. She wasn't used to straight liquor. She coughed and wheezed but quickly gained control of herself and slammed the bottle back into his chest. "We've celebrated," she said coolly.

  "Have we?" He set the bottle on the table. His hands were suddenly upon her cheek and throat, his long fingers splayed along her chin, lifting it. His breath just fanned her lips, then his mouth touched down upon hers, forcing a full, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue plunging deeply into her, liquid fire, decadent in the extreme. His fingers slipped beneath the robe, touching her collarbone and throat. She was drawn inexorably nearer. His hand slipping down to cup her breast, his palm moving over her nipple. She was startled by the lightning rip of sensation that tore into her from the touch. Such shocking warmth, so mercurial, so sweeping, touching where he touched, touching where he did not.

  She brought her hands between them to protest, to push away. But his lips had moved just a breath away from hers.

  His fingers then threaded through her hair, and his whisper was soft and taunting against her ear.

  "What if I wanted a wife, eh, Lady Douglas? Then I'd have a wife, so you say."

  She went still, her heart pounding, hating him, hating herself. She wanted so badly to pull away.

  Because she was so appalled by the feelings that engulfed her. At the simmering warmth that filled her. At the way she felt when he touched her, brushed her nipple, forced his tongue into her mouth, stroking with a strange insinuation that seemed to leap inside her as well as without ... oh, God, she needed to be free from him!

  But she didn't need to pull away. He suddenly thrust her from him.

  "You are for sale to the highest bidder, aren't you, Lady Douglas?" he demanded.

  She stared at him, shaking, realizing her robe hung open. She raised her fingers to her damp, swollen lips, drew the robe more tightly against her.

  "You have his eyes but nothing else," she said. "There is nothing else of your father about you at all," she told him heatedly.

  "Don't you tell me about my father," he warned her.

  "I might have known him better than you."

  "One has the feeling you've known many men. But now that we are wed, thanks to my father's efforts on my behalf," he said sardonically, "the only man you'll know is me."

  "You bastard!" she hissed.

  But he didn't hear her. He had turned away and slammed out of the lodge.

  And once again, she was alone.

  Six

  Wolf was an extraordinary dog.

  He was the best guard dog in the world, ready to rip to shreds any enemy who might come near his master. Yet when Hawk came outside the lodge, slamming the door in his wake only to sink down and sit on the wooden porch, Wolf was beside him instantly, whining softly, sticking his wet nose next to Hawk's face.

  "Hey, dog, good dog," Hawk said softly, rubbing his pet's fur strenuously. Wolf settled down beside Hawk, his nose on his master's knee. Hawk patted him absently. He leaned his head back against the lodge wall. He had swigged down way too much whiskey.

  He didn't appreciate her informing him of the fact. Nor reminding him that yes, the Indians had been made fools of time and again over liquor.

  He didn't, in fact, appreciate her very existence.

  A dull pain struck him again. What had his father been thinking when he'd married him to this woman? He had known that David Douglas had been deeply concerned about U.S. policy in the West because he was convinced that generals were, running the government. Grant was president, and therefore commander in chief of the army. Sher- man and Sheridan, who had done their share of devastating the South in order to win the war, had been turned loose on the American West for some time now. Each year, the conflicts increased the determination of the whites to open the West. Indians were to live where they were told or be considered hostiles. But there was nothing good about reservation living. The whites wanted the best lands. The buffalo were being hunted to extinction. When the Indians couldn't hunt enough game, they starved. Unless they could grow enough food. But the Plains Indians survived mostly off their hunting. And if they had been natural farmers, it wouldn't have mattered, because any time the land was good, the whites eventually wanted it. On the reservations, far too often, the men grew lazy and indolent. They drank. ..

  Until their pride drove them from the reservations. And then they became hostiles. And hostiles were to be exterminated.

  David had warned his son of this frequently. Just as he had often enough urged his son to marry again, to heal the breach in his heart. Marry a white woman. One who would not be a sister or a daughter of a hostile. One who would not bring him more heartache.

  He wished he hadn't left the whiskey inside.

  He wished his head wasn't pounding.

  He wished ...

  It was his cabin. What was he doing slumped down with his dog on the porch while she resided comfortably inside? Especially after he'd ridden through half the night to reach Gold Town and had spent a good part of today riding back.

  Why wouldn't she go back home? Perhaps she knew the terms of his father's will. Knew that she had far more to gain if she remained here as his ...

  Wife. The woman was his wife. He almost laughed aloud, remembering how Henry had asked if there was something wrong with her. No, there was nothing wrong with her. Her eyes were almost pure silver; her hair was almost pure gold. To touch her was to feel a stroke of silk.

  To lie against her was to feel the greatest sensual pleasure. To...

  His thoughts broke off as he realized that the pounding that had been in his head seemed to have filled the length of him. His groin was hot and hard. He could remember the taste and feel of her lips, the full curve of her breast.

  Too damned had she was his wife.

  Bought and paid for, so it seemed. There was no returning her.

  Even if she was his father's used goods.

  Even if she'd brought about David's death.

  He swore out loud. Dusk was already falling again. He'd been gone from Mayfair far longer than he'd intended, and he needed to travel out again to the river country beyond the hills where he knew he'd find his grandfather's band.

  But not tonight. Tonight...

  He'd always been sparing in most things. His eating habits, his use of alcohol.

  Not tonight. Tonight, he wanted to get rip-roaring drunk. Toast the old man.

  Toast the new woman.

  Fall into a deep, drunken sleep and dream that time could move backward and the plains could be big enough for the red men, the white men, and the buffalo.

  He gave Wolf a last pat on the head and pushed himself back up to his feet. He opened the door, stepping back into the cabin.

  She stood pensively before the fire, then looked at him warily as he entered. Her robe was drawn tight; she'd drawn her fingers through the long strands of her golden hair to somewhat righten it. She appeared calm, dignified, her eyes touching his with that regal look she could manage. He noted again that she had been endowed with an almost startling, beauty: the silver of her eyes was so intense, the gold of her hair so vivid, the sculpture of her oval face so defined, delicate, elegant, arresting. As he watched her, he realized that a tempting aroma was filling

  The cabin. She'd set a kettle atop the fire, and the hunger- rousing scent was wafting from it.

  "It's soup," she murmured defensively. "You told me to m
ake my myself at home. I found onions and potatoes to go with the ham. And some shell peas."

  "Ah. What a good wife," he mocked. "She cooks."

  "What a good husband," she retorted. "He drinks."

  "Cheers!" He found the whiskey bottle on the table and lifted it to her, smiling grimly as he spoke. "He drinks— and he's a Sioux. Tell me, even if you're absolutely determined to remain here—and I'll grant you that Mayfair is a fine enough place to live—doesn't it disturb you in the least that my skin is red? I am an Indian. A Sioux—considered by many whites to be among the most savage beasts on the plains. You were hardly enamored of me when we met."

  "You were attacking my stagecoach when we met."

  "It's what Indians do."

  She ignored that, walking to the fire. "If you'd like to try this, I'll get you a bowl."

  "Indeed, yes. I'm ravenous. Do so."

  She placed the soup before him. He pulled a chair from the table and tasted the soup, never taking his eyes from her.

  "Well. Is it edible?"

  "Not poisoned, right?"

  "Not poisoned."

  "It's quite adequate."

  "How kind," she murmured coolly.

  He caught her wrist, smiling up at her. "Perhaps it should have been poisoned. I'm a young man. It's unlikely that you'll induce me to expire from a heart attack."

  She wrenched her wrist free, rubbing it. "Enjoy your adequate soup. The next meal you'll get from me you'll wear over your head before you ever get a chance to eat it."

  She poured herself a bowl, joining him at the opposite end of the table. He tore his eyes from her at last, finishing his bowl of soup quickly. He sat back, stared at the whiskey bottle, drank long and deeply once again.

  "A vice you indulge in often?'

  "Everytime I acquire an unwanted bride."

  "Is that often?"

  "Thankfully, no."

  "You've never married be—"

  "Yes. I was married before."

  "Your wife—"

  "Is dead."

  "I'm sorry."

  He shook his head. "Are you? Not nearly as damned sorry as I, Lady Douglas."

  She stood abruptly. "Perhaps you should go ahead, then, and dwell in your self-pity and bitterness." She came around the table, lifting the whiskey bottle, slamming it back down right in front of him. "Why don't you just go ahead and drink yourself into a stupor? I'll enjoy the quiet."

  She turned away from him with a dismissive contempt that seemed to light the short fuse of his temper. To his astonishment he found himself on his feet, wrenching her back by a corner of her robe. The robe fell from her shoulder, exposing one of her full young breasts. He'd seen it before, he reminded himself. No need to feel such a heated lust growing ...

  Yes, he'd seen her before. Familiarity was breeding desire.

  "Madam, I could drink all night—and not fall into a stupor. And remember, you have chosen to be here. I've offered you a way out. You refuse to take it."

  ' 'You are hardly in a proper frame of mind in which to talk this matter through. You—"

  "Talk!"

  She tried to jerk free from him and spin away, gain distance from him. But his fingers remained taut on her robe, and when she left him, she left behind her covering as well.

  When she turned to face him, silver eyes wide, she was naked, and at last, somewhat unnerved.

  She blinked, moistening her lips, staring at him without moving. She lifted a hand toward him, indicating the robe that had fallen by his feet. "If you'd be so good as to hand that back ..." she murmured.

  He picked up the robe, still meeting her gaze. Then he opened his clenched fingers, allowing the robe to fall back to the floor.

  "Maybe not. Maybe it's time you get to know me better than you knew my father."

  He was taking two long, swift strides toward her before she seemed to realize her danger. She turned to bolt just when he reached her, his hands around her waist, lifting her, throwing her down upon the furs on the bed. She seemed stunned when she first fell, all that golden hair softly glittering in the subdued firelight, splaying out like tendrils of the sun. Again, she seemed to regain her breath and attempted to rise for an escape, but he was quickly down upon her, his weight pushing her deeper down into the furs.

  She came to life then, twisting beneath him as she strained to throw him from her. She fought like a wildcat, trying to strike, kick, punch him.

  "Lady Douglas," he mocked, avoiding the blows she was attempting to dole out. "I have no desire for a wife, remember? I need but your word that you'll go home—"

  She lay still for a second beneath him, her breasts heaving, her silver eyes on his.

  "We need to talk!"

  "There's nothing to say. It will be one way or the other. We are man and wife, or we are not."

  "You're in no frame of mind to straighten this out—"

  "Shall we get an annulment then?"

  "You're drunk—"

  "Ah, but alas! I've fallen into no stupor. And, as you can see, I'm not on the verge of a heart attack, either."

  "You'll wind up stabbed in the heart!" she cried, slamming against him again.

  "Some men are easier to kill than others."

  He straddled her, his fingers sliding along the length of her bare arms to her wrists, capturing them.

  He leaned close to her face. "We're husband and wife, or we are not," he told her. "The choice is yours. Say the word, and 1 will let you up."

  But she didn't speak. Her eyes glittered with a fury that matched any he had seen in the face of the most savage Crow warrior. She was dead still, staring at him, challenging him. At last she whispered fiercely, "I am not going back."

  He didn't know what he had expected from her; he didn't even know exactly what he wanted.

  Yes, he did.

  He tried to tell himself that it was the whiskey in him, that he was drunk. But he had drunk to dull the sensations in him, the pain for his father, the desire for this woman. Hating her, doubting her, indeed, still wondering what part she had played in his father's death.

  But it didn't matter.

  He wanted her. Wanted her in a way that defied all reason. It was like a blinding pulse within him, a pulse that quickened its beat with each second that went by. It seemed like the force of a storm, like that of a hundred ponies tearing over the plain. More powerful than thought and reason, and even pain. He was seduced as well. She had sold herself to the highest bidder; no matter how he challenged her, she wouldn't say the words that would force him to set her free now no matter what rage of raw lust had taken root within his loins.

  "Again!" he exclaimed harshly, "I ask you—"

  "I will be a wife!" she cried out furiously.

  She was trembling but he didn't care. He shifted his weight, shoving apart her thighs with the force of his knees, adjusting his buckskin trousers. The painful swell of his sex lay against the softness of her flesh when he noted her eyes again. They had closed. Her lips were slightly parted. I ler breasts rose and fell as she gasped for every breath she drew. He watched her, drawing a hand down the length of her hip and thigh, firmly stroking the smooth dip of her abdomen, then running his palm over the golden thatch of her mound before sliding firmly between her legs to part the tender lips of her sex. She shuddered fiercely again, her lips moving, no sound coming from them. He thrust her l highs further apart and felt again the fierce shuddering seize her. He leaned closer against her, pausing to catch her lace in his hand, as he leaned down taut upon her. "Open your eyes!" he commanded.

  She did so. Swallowing as she faced him. That silver fire still with her. But her eyes seemed huge once again. Luminous. She moistened her lips, wetting them furiously with the tip of her tongue. She writhed as if to combat the threat of him between her thighs. Yet she stopped quickly, meeting his gaze, her lashes falling then.

  "You said something," he whispered to her.

  She shook her head.

  "You spoke. What did you say?"
<
br />   Her eyes opened again. "I said ..."

  "Yes?"

  "Please."

  "Please what?"

  She shook her head, closing her eyes. "Please, just don't..."

  He grated down on his teeth. Defied the savage hunger in himself.

  "You can still be free."

  "I... no."

  "Then please ... ?"

  She shook her head again. She shifted. The hard, wildly aroused length of his sex rubbed against her inner thigh. "Please, don't..."

  He frowned. "Hurt you?" he whispered.

  She tried to turn away, forcing the tip of his sex intimately against the portals of her own. She froze, and he felt her body shaking again, rubbing against him, now driving him near to insanity. But he placed his palm against her cheek, brushing his thumb over her lips. "I'll not hurt you," he heard himself promise huskily. "I'll do my damnedest not to hurt you."

  He pressed his mouth to her slightly parted lips, opening them further, filling them with the force of his tongue, tasting, stroking, coercing, moving slowly, leisurely at first, lulling ... until he was certain that she responded. He-kept his lips upon hers while he allowed his hands the exquisite freedom to roam over her body. Touching. Fingertips light upon the flesh of her inner arms, his palms barely touching the tips of her breasts. Holding, caressing, cradling the weight of them, arousing the peaks once more with a stroke of his palm, the manipulation of his thumb and fingers. His lips rose from her at last. Trailed along her throat. Took root upon a swollen, crested nipple. Played long, slowly, suckling, teasing, his tongue darting against her flesh. Thunder played havoc in his mind. His body tensed into magnificent knots. He feared that he would implode with the hunger building inside of him....

  She didn't move. Didn't protest. She trembled. At times, little sounds seemed to escape from her, gasps and moans. Only when he dipped lower against her, his lips skimming her abdomen as he moved his head in a horizontal pattern down the length of her, did her fingers suddenly clench his hair, then release it... and another sound escaped from her throat. He moved his hand down her inner thigh, his fingers stroking with a featherlight touch. With his fingertip he drew a line that he touched then with the heat of his lips and tongue, feeling the rigid tautness of his own muscles, the straining within him, the desire spiraling with each taste of her. His fingers burned. His body seemed a roaring inferno. He brought the line of his touch, and the damp stroke of his kiss behind it, ever higher. He stroked the soft V of golden blond hair, parted the outer flesh there, pressed intimately within her. She stiffened, muscles taut, her body shaking despite her efforts to keep still. He teased, invaded with a liquid caress, then rose, his fingers still touching her intimately, watching her curiously as he seared within. Her eyes remained closed. Her fingers were dug into the bed furs with such force that she might have torn the hair from the pelt. Enough. The thunder within him might well cause his heart to cease to beat within seconds. He rose again above her. Thrust apart her thighs, which she had instinctively brought together again. Thrust heedlessly, hungrily within her. Deep, deep within her, being encompassed, the relief of just being inside of her so great that he was both appeased and more wildly aroused and ...