No Other Man

by Shannon Drake

  He went dead still, his body both burning and frozen, the pounding within his head now something that raged, denying all reason. Denying her innocence.

  But he couldn't deny the physical evidence his own rough force had brought home to him.

  Whatever else she might have done, she hadn't seduced his father into bed. Or at least not this far. Nor had she made her way through life sleeping with any man.

  She didn't cry out. The same reckless courage that had brought her this far kept her silent now. Her fingers clenched the furs so tightly that her knuckles were white. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling above; she had bit into her lower lip with such fierce determination that a tiny drop of blood rested there now....

  His muscles knotted, eased, tensed, contorted again. Reason demanded he withdraw, sanity demanded that he not. He caught her ashen face between his fingers, forcing her to look at him.

  He should have whispered something reassuring, said something tender, gentle. He'd taken a virgin before, a virgin wife at that, and the night had been one filled with laughter and sweet, erotic pleasure for them both. But they'd both known what they wanted, what they were doing; they'd known one another....

  "Damn you!" he whispered.

  So much for tender words. But he could not withdraw, would not withdraw. They had come this far. She had insisted on being a wife.

  He'd said he wouldn't hurt her. He hadn't realized ...

  "Damn you!" he whispered once again. But he drew her fingers from the fur, threading them through his own, holding her hands tightly, very slowly beginning to move. He kissed her lips, forcing open her mouth. As slowly as he moved with the thrust of his sex, he coerced and teased with his kiss against her lips, with the tip of his tongue upon her mouth, throat, breasts. Until finally her fingers were no longer entwined with his but braced upon his shoulders, his back, moving. Until it seemed that her lips parted to his demand, that her body arched, her nipples hardened again, her breasts swelled, the length of her form...

  Undulated.

  Arched. Moved to his.

  Caution was lost. The thunder was like a hammer blow, driving him to a relentless, furious, shuddering rhythm. Heat built within like the rage of a firestorm; it spiraled throughout him, into her. Her fingers dug into his flesh, sounds tore from her throat. Her teeth grazed his shoulder, her head arched back. He grasped her knees, parting her further. A gasp ripped from her throat, the supple perfection of her form locked around his, rocked, writhed, undulated, moved with and against his ...

  That supple movement forced him to an explosive brink of climax. He strained to hold himself back, force her ever higher, force from her ...

  A cry, strangled back, so quickly swallowed. Yet not so easily hidden in the rigidity of her form before it went limp, the dampness that closed so warmly around his sex, driving him the last few seconds into an explosive, staggering climax, one that brought him thundering into her again, and again, and once again, his body constricted to a taut line, spilling out the firestorm that had raged and swept within him. It wracked his body, shook it, tensed it, eased it, tensed it...

  And then, it was over.

  He braced over her, his flesh soaked beneath the clothing he had never found the time to shed. He couldn't remember the last time he had known such hunger or such fulfillment, such wanting, and such a volatile climax. He was unbelievably sated, yet thinking of her alone could trigger the sparks of something deep inside him again, ignite anew the subtle growth of such a wild hunger again. He stared down at her.

  She didn't open her eyes. She had to inhale several times before she could manage to speak, and even then, her words were barely a whisper. "Could you ... get off me now?"

  He held still for a moment, chagrined, both his temper and a sense of shame he told himself he didn't have to feel growing. He couldn't say how many women he had known, Indian, white, respectable, experienced, just beyond the bounds of innocence. But he'd never had an encounter end like this, with the woman politely asking him to remove himself from her person.

  But then again, he'd never been so incensed as to come to something so very close to force as this. It didn't seem to matter that he'd offered her every possible way out.

  "No, I don't think so," he told her.

  Her eyes opened. In them he thought he saw confusion, pain, and astonishment as if she'd just gained some startling new knowledge. Which he supposed she had.

  "You could have told me you hadn't engaged in intimate relations before."

  "Intimate relations!" she choked out. "Oh, God, coming from you that sounds so strange...." Fire filled her silver orbs once again. "You have everything set in your mind; why in God's name would I tell you anything? What you want to know, you can just find out on your own every damned time!" she promised him vehemently.

  She had a way about her. A way of creating a wicked, unbearable rise in his temper and his blood.

  He smiled grimly. He smoothed back a tangled lock of her hair, then rose, shedding his tangled clothing at last.

  She'd created such a knot within him that he hit the mantle with one boot, the door with the other, the ground with his trousers and shirt. When he turned back to her, she was seated against the bedpost, furs drawn around her, her arms wrapped protectively around her knees, her eyes wide with alarm at last. Her silver eyes slid over the length of him. She trembled, flicking her eyes back to his.

  "I've been a wife, right?" she demanded. "I'm so very tired—"

  "You can sleep soon enough. But for the moment..."

  "What?"

  "Well, I'm curious. I think I want to find out just how long it will take me to arouse you a second time."

  "Arouse me? Oh, you are a conceited and arrogant man. I never—" she began indignantly.

  He smiled wickedly. "You liar. You did."

  "No!"

  She let out a shriek when he caught hold of her ankles, dragging her down the length of the bed. She brought her fists flying against his chest when he laid his body over hers.

  But when he forced his kiss upon her, her arms stole around his neck.

  And he was convinced that there was no pain.

  Only pleasure.

  Seven

  Waking was painful.

  She'd been right. He'd drunk far too much. It had been a downfall of his people before.

  And last night...

  He didn't think, in the whole of his life, that he'd ever felt more ashamed of himself. He groaned, wishing that his eyes didn't burn, his head didn't hurt, and he didn't feel such complete and utter self-disgust.

  Dawn had become day. Light fell into the room, causing a riotous dance of dust motes. He could see them falling from the ceiling, playing in the air above her naked shoulder. A shoulder that lay against his chest. His arm encircled her, drawing her against him. Her silky blond hair was tangled beneath his nose. Her back was curved to him, her buttocks against his groin, her legs entangled with his. His hand, dark copper against the pale ivory of her flesh, lay upon her abdomen. They slept like a long-married couple.

  Married.

  Indeed, he'd done it now. It was unlikely he could entice her into filing for an annulment at this point.

  Did he really want an annulment? Didn't he feel, just on awakening, on feeling the softness of her against him, that she was not so bad a creature to possess?

  He quickly disentangled himself from her, determined that his actions would not be ruled by his anatomy again. Naked, his head pounding, he stumbled to the tub by the fire, glad to use the now icy cold water to sluice his face and body and give him a truly rude awakening. He toweled himself dry quickly, eschewed the clothing he had scattered over the floor, found a pair of Mr. Levi's button-fly jeans and a cotton shirt in his trunk, and dressed quickly. He kept his eyes from the still-sleeping woman all the while, until he had started coffee perking, and drew up a chair at the table to wait until it had brewed.

  Then he found himself staring at her once again. She was really exceptionally
beautiful.

  With the devil's own temper, he throught wryly.

  And now. ..

  She was his. He still didn't know a damned thing about her. He didn't know what had happened between her and David. Of course, he did know that she hadn't slept with his father.

  Maybe she'd been willing to do so, just as she had been willing last night. But maybe David had expired before they'd gotten to the point where they'd gotten last night.

  And maybe, just maybe, she hadn't caused David's heart attack at all.

  Skylar opened her eyes to see the white of the sheets. She started to move, but even as she did so, she became aware that she was sore from head to toe. She winced, shifting just slightly, then met the steady green eyes staring at her from across the room. She went still, watching him in turn, unnerved by the intensity of his gaze.

  He was up and dressed, hair queued back. He wore a white cotton shirt, just slightly open at the throat, and blue pants that hugged his muscled form. A form that she now knew very well. Broad, uncompromising shoulders, powerful arms and chest. The copper flesh of his chest marked by several unusual scars. Waist lean, and taut as a drum. Trim hips...

  She stopped, her breath catching. She didn't want to think about the rest of him. It brought too much color to her face. Made her remember. Not that he had pinned her to the bed. Not that he had forced her to choose. Not that he had insisted on their playing their roles as man and wife.

  Rather it made her remember the way he had made her feel, the hunger she had found in turn. The longing to touch his body in turn, explore it, taste it. Move with it...

  Indians were supposed to do nothing more than couple, like wild animals. She had heard it said among cavalry wives, whose husbands had said that it was so.

  This Indian was an extraordinary lover. As wild as any creature on the plain, but adept as well, she was certain. Yet David Douglas had told her that Indians were just as human as white men, and all men, red, white, and black, were the same when taught the same things. David had actually taught her quite a bit about the Plains Indians. He had simply neglected to tell her that he had a son who happened to be one. Or that he was really marrying her to that son.

  He'd neglected to tell the son as well. And so he was now studying her, watching her with those deep, fire-green eyes that seemed to promise he'd have much preferred slitting her throat and scalping her to taking her as a wife. No matter what expertise he had brought to the undertaking.

  "You're awake. Good. Get up. Get dressed. We need to move on," he told her, rising from his chair and going to the fire. "I'm afraid I slept late myself, but we've things to do and we're going to reach Mayfair tonight, no matter how late."

  She gazed at the floor. It remained strewn with clothing, her robe where it had so fatefully fallen the night before. He'd made coffee again, this coffee straight, she was quite certain. This morning, he was all business and impatience. Not that he had been anything but brusque, even at the height of passion. The best he had offered her was his skill at taking a woman. No tenderness had entered into it.

  Yet, she knew .. .

  She hadn't allowed herself to be tender, either. Nor would she ever allow it when she knew what he thought of her.

  Tears suddenly sprang to her eyes unbidden. She blinked furiously, knowing that she'd soon be under his scrutiny once again. He would probably find them amusing, part of the payment she must make for being a gold digger.

  She rolled away from him, realizing he was turning back from the fire.

  "I said to get dressed."

  "I don't give a damn what you said," she replied. "I'll get up—"

  She broke off because his hand was on her arm, pulling her around. Both their gazes fell upon the tangle of bed- sheets that gave credence to her innocence and to the night they had spent together. Skylar pulled free from his touch, her cheeks on fire. God, don't let him say anything! she prayed. Don't let him—

  But he wasn't about to apologize for what had happened.

  "I want to get back to Riley's. My father's body should have arrived by now. You can go with me or stay here, but I'll be gone in twenty minutes."

  "I can't get dressed!" she hissed at him.

  "Why not?"

  "You ripped up the only clothes I had!"

  "So I did," he responded. Again, there was no hint of apology in his tone whatsoever. He walked around to the foot of the bed to the trunk and looked through it. She drew the furs around her, watching him. His features were burnished a true copper. They were so cleanly defined, the cheekbones broad, his nose strong and straight. She bit her lips, intrigued at the combination of heritages that had created his face. He looked both white and Indian. The Sioux in him was clearly apparent in his ink-dark hair. But his eyes were indeed his father's. It seemed amazing now that she hadn't recognized his eyes immediately.

  When he looked up at her, she flushed, unnerved that he had caught her studying him so intently.

  "I hope that these will do," he said, handing her a pile ol clothing. "I'm not quite sure what exactly is required of women's fashion these days but... your trunk will be back .11 Riley's, and you can change there if you desire."

  Skylar looked at the clothing on the bed: pantalettes, chemise, shirt, skirt. She couldn't help but wonder where the clothing had come from and whom it had belonged to. The style of the shirt was that of the simple frontier clothing sold in many stores in the East for those planning to take on the hazardous journey west. It had remained the same lor many years.

  She looked up at him.

  "I do suppose your gown was much grander. You are, after all, Lady Douglas."

  "This will do just fine. In fact, it's absolutely lovely, and I would have adored it had you given me this to wear rather lhan that robe."

  He smiled slightly. ' 'If you are determined to stay, what difference does it make that your marriage was consummated last night? You were given a choice. You couldn't have assumed that you could have remained any man's wife and not shared his bed."

  Her eyes fell. "It just..."

  "What?" he demanded. He lowered himself before her, his face angry, his voice completely hostile once again. "Do you think that things will change? You are an interloper in my life; you came here thinking that you could lake everything. Well, you cannot do so, and I will not suddenly forget that you came here to claim my father's estates. You wished to take on a role; you've taken it on. What's done is over. We are both spared the discomfort of discovery again. Now, if you are coming with me, get dressed."

  "You are not just despicable: you are mean; you are cruel!" she hissed to him.

  "Yes, well, you have made your bargain with the devil, haven't you?" he demanded.

  So she had. She turned her back on him, rising and dressing as quickly as possible. She longed for a bath. To soak in hot water until.. .

  Until she could wash away the past. How many years could she wash away?

  That wasn't really the question. How much time did she have left to save Sabrina? No matter how horrid Hawk might be to her, he could not be as bad as what had nearly ensnared her. They were, after all, a married couple.

  As soon as she'd donned the clothes, she turned. The skirt was a little short, a tiny bit loose. Otherwise, it fit well.

  Hawk was back at the table, finishing his coffee. She ignored him, searching through the remnants of her clothing for her stockings. She was startled when he joined in her search, offering the stockings to her. She snatched them from his hands.

  "Tell me, Lord Douglas, had I not proven to be your wife, had my marriage license not been legal, would I have walked freely from this place?"

  He arched a brow at her. "Are you asking if I would have raped you? Slain you—scalped you?"

  "You ripped my clothes to shreds. Would I have walked out of here naked?"

  He merely shrugged. "You'd have walked out dressed as you are now. I'd have seen that you received whatever sum was necessary to replace your clothing and get you home. Generous, had
you been an impostor other than a gold digger."

  "Generous!" Skylar exploded. "Well, then, had it been that way, I'd have sued the pants off you. I'd have prosecuted. I'd have taken you to court for kidnapping and rape. I'd have—"

  "You did inform me of all the torture you'd have dealt out had you been able. Get your stockings and shoes on; have coffee if you wish. I'll saddle Tor and call Wolf."

  He left the cabin. She stood there, shaking, enraged with her own impotence to act against him.

  But she couldn't go back....

  She finished dressing, then discovered that the black coffee was delicious, that it raced warmly into her system, and she was grateful for it. He had cleared the soup dishes from the night before. She had taken the coffee pot, ready to discard the grounds, when he came back in. He broke up the fire in the grate. He turned to her. "Ready?"

  "I—should I dump these? And the water... in the tub will grow stagnant."