No Other Man

by Shannon Drake

  She shook her head strenuously. "You're mistaken. I'm offended that you're in mine."

  "Or are you offended because you suspect others might have been invited to mine?"

  "Not at all, if you'd only the good grace to remain there yourself!"

  He started to laugh. "Lady Douglas, you are unique, I do grant you that!"

  "And you are a presumptuous bastard, I do swear it. Still assuming I somehow wronged your father. Well, I didn't seduce him into his heart attack; I never slept with him. You surely do know that now for a fact—" She broke off, wanting him gone.

  "Tell me what happened."

  "I'll never tell you anything! Never!"

  "Then it seems that what we share in this bedroom must suffice to make us man and wife."

  "I—"

  She cried out in rage and surprise when he moved with ungodly speed, catching hold of her bodice, ripping the white gown cleanly down the center. She tried to slam her hands against his chest, but he was too quick, catching her wrists, staring at her as she stared back at him. He eased his hold on her wrists.

  She shook, still meeting his green gaze, making no move.

  "How dare you?" she grated out furiously.

  He leaned over her, pinching out the light of the candle with his thumb and forefinger. Then his body covered her like a blanket, his fingers winding around her wrists and bringing them to her side, exposing her bare flesh to his. His skin sleek and hot against her own. She felt the pounding of his heart, the ripple and form of muscle.

  "You told me if I wanted a wife, I would have a wife. Your words, your promise. Tonight, I want a wife." She was startled by the tension in his features above her in the near darkness. She swallowed hard, twisting her face from his in the darkness. Dreading his touch, anticipating it, yearning for it. What could she possibly do now? Revise at this late moment what she had said before? You may have a wife anytime you want just as long as you touch no other woman.

  Let him know that unbidden jealousy tore at her heart. It made no sense, really, but it was there.

  She stared at him again. "Fine. You're right. Take what you want. Any time. But again, I swear, I'll give you nothing. Nothing. Until..."

  She broke off, gasping. His lips were on her flesh. His mouth closing over her breast. Subtly stroking, moving, suckling. His hands ... on her body. Thrusting between her thighs. His fingers touching, rubbing, parting ...

  She nearly cried out loud in anguish, but she willed herself to silence.

  Just as she willed herself not to move. Not to give. Not to deny, but not to give ...

  Damn him.

  The feel of his flesh, his lips and teeth, the stoke of his tongue. Damn his bold intimacy. Damn him, damn him, damn him. She clenched her teeth together hard. Tossed her head to the side. Felt him, felt sensations so newly awakened, so prepared to come awake again, flesh so tender, to be stroked, caressed, kissed ...

  Him. On top of her. Filling her. The feel, the friction, the speed, the fever—it was unbearable. She would not give! She'd have back her soul, please God ...

  In the end, she never made a voluntary move. She never had to. He had the satisfaction of feeling what she could not hide, the constriction that seized her, the trembling that shook her, the liquid heat encompassing him. But that was all. She gave nothing more. Nothing more at all. It didn't seem to bother him. He reached his own climax, his body locked atop hers, once again, and again. He held there a long while, still within her. She refused to open her eyes. She barely breathed.

  "How long will you play this game, I wonder?" he queried, studying her face when he withdrew from her at last. She turned her back on him, furious with men in general. They never seemed to understand anything.

  "Have it your way then, Lady Douglas," he said at last.

  "Would you stop that mockery?" she demanded, still resentful that it seemed she had managed nothing more than to amuse him.

  "Which mockery is that, since all seems mockery to you?"

  "Lady Douglas."

  "You are Lady Douglas. You've been most insistent about informing me of that fact."

  "I will never be Lady Douglas to you," she said, wishing she could draw away from him completely. She felt like an injured cat. She wished she could lick her wounds. But she could not. She could turn from him, but it seemed she couldn't escape him completely.

  He was silent a long moment. "Skylar," he said. It was the first time she could ever remember his using her given name. She had even wondered at times if he remembered what it was.

  He leaned over her shoulder in the shadows. She felt the brush of his ink-black hair against the flesh of her shoulder. "Skylar, you are mistaken. It seems you are Lady Douglas," he told her, adding, "indeed, you are to me, and to everyone else."

  He shifted, turning his back on her. She lay in silence, wishing she could sleep. Wishing that she didn't feel both the closeness of his body and the distance that lay between them.

  Eventually, she slept. She dreamed. Distorted dreams that her mind couldn't seem to hold on to. Yet sometime during the night, she woke, frightened, and not at all certain as to why she was afraid. She'd been alone, she thought. Alone, and she'd needed help so badly. She sat up, shivering.

  "What is it?"

  She jumped, startled. She wasn't alone. He remained with her. He lay at her side, his dark head upon a white pillow, his eyes opened, seeing more in the darkness than she, she was certain.

  "Nothing," she whispered, swallowing uneasily.

  "Come back to sleep." It was more of an impatient command than an invitation, yet somehow ...

  There was something almost normally domestic about it.

  "It's at least another hour until dawn," he informed her.

  His long dark fingers fell upon her arm in the moonlight. He pulled her back down. Against him. His arm remained around her. Her back was tucked to his chest. She could feel his chin atop her head, his movement as he smoothed down her hair to keep it from tickling his nose. She could feel the smoothness of the flesh on his chest, the ripples of the muscles beneath. She could feel the hardness of his hips and the bulk of his relaxed sex against her buttocks. For a few seconds she dared not move or breathe. She felt the rhythmic pulse of his heart. Slowly, she felt more at ease. She closed her eyes. Drifted.

  She was warm.

  And she wasn't alone.

  When he awoke, she still slept. He found himself propped on an elbow, regarding her again with a brooding deliberation. How long had she been a part of his life now? Three days? How long since he had actually verified their legal relationship and taken possession of her as a wife? Not quite two days. So why was it that he felt she had seeped inside of him? Why was it he still felt such a keen fury to shake her, make her explain? Take the hostility she held against him like a steel shield and snap it and break it.

  He rose quietly, washed, and dressed in the clothing he had shed the night before. Today they were going to bury his father. The father he'd trusted. The father who had saddled him with this impossible, exquisite woman. This woman who had influenced his father's last will and testament, something that still shook him to the core. And hurt. And she'd been there when David had died.

  He had not.

  He stood over the bed for a moment, remembering the silver fire in her eyes and the flippant tone she'd used when mocking him last night. He smiled, then let fly with a firm whack against the tempting ivory curve of her buttocks. She instantly jumped up with an indignant cry, drawing tangled skeins of golden hair from her face as she looked up at him—ready for warfare.

  "Sorry, my love, but it's going to be a very busy day. I'm sure Megan will need help and direction from the mistress of the house. I have no idea how many people may arrive, but the Reverend Mathews is due at half past three."

  He turned and left before she could reply. Something struck the door behind him. He smiled, but his smile faded as he walked down the stairs. Willow and Lily had already arrived and were hanging black crepe ove
r the front door and window frames.

  He hurried down the steps, greeting Willow, kissing Lily. He was very fond of his cousin's wife. Lily had come west because she'd been a sixteen-year-old girl left with nothing at the war's end. She'd joined with a musical troupe and been part of a revue in Dodge City for many years. Heading farther out west, her company had been waylaid by a band of Cheyenne on the warpath soon after what had become known as the Sand Creek Massacre—the total devastation of a Cheyenne village by the army. Lily had been spared. She'd been taken as a second wife by a Cheyenne warrior who had later been killed. The Cheyenne and the Sioux had often formed alliances in those years. Lily had come to the Oglalas, and Willow had become smitten with her. She'd lived an Indian life for many years, but there was little doubt that Willow's decision to live in a lodge house had been influenced by his wife and his love for her.

  "Hawk, Dark Mountain has just arrived," Lily told him. "He is in with your father now." She was a small, attractive woman with dark red hair and a smattering of freckles. He squeezed her hand, glancing at Willow. "I'll talk with Dark Mountain."

  "I'll see that you're not disturbed," Willow told him.

  Hawk nodded and entered the parlor where his father lay. Dark Mountain, his best friend from his boyhood days in the Sioux camp, stood by the coffin. He had apparently opened the lid; now he closed it again. He was a tall war- rior, dressed completely in buckskin, two feathers worn in his hair, symbols of his triumphs in important battles.

  "Thank you for coming," Hawk said, speaking in Sioux, which had been his first language.

  Dark Mountain nodded gravely and embraced him. "I am the only one who will come from the Crazy Horse people," he told Hawk. "Your father was a great man who will be missed by all. Crazy Horse has said, though, that you will understand that he and his followers cannot come here now."

  "Yes, he's right, I do understand," Hawk said. The Crazy Horse people were not a natural family band; they were not Miniconjou, Two Kettles, Oglala or other—they were defined simply by the fact that they had chosen to follow Crazy Horse and resist the white onslaught. Nor was Crazy Horse a hereditary chief. He was, however, a very brave warrior among the Sioux. When he was a boy, his vision quest had shown him a warrior, facing a rain of bullets and arrows, riding a horse among them, never being hit. As the years passed and he saw the way the white government broke every promise it made to the Sioux, he became that warrior, a man determined to lead his people in battle. He would be a free Indian, not a reservation Indian. More and more young men, women, and even children flocked to him. The seven-foot warrior of the Miniconjous, Touch-the-Clouds, had tried reservation life. He left again to join Crazy Horse. Those bands now moved to the northwest to the final hunting grounds of the Sioux, far from the white settlements, where Sitting Bull had also amassed a large following. No matter how hard the government tried to get them to come in to negotiate the sale of the Black Hills, the Crazy Horse people determined to stay away.

  "The army will ask you to visit Crazy Horse and plead with him to come to a meeting near one of the agencies and listen to their arguments. You will come?''

  Hawk grinned. "Yes, the army has already asked me. Cougar-in-the-Night has asked me to talk with Crazy

  Horse. And I will come. I'm anxious to see my grandfather. And my friends."

  "Cougar brings the words of the army."

  "He brings them honestly."

  "He tries. The army has taken him away. Yet he doesn't forget that he grew up among honest people."

  "He will not try to influence any man against what he thinks is right or wrong. He will try very hard to explain how the Sioux can best negotiate."

  "War may be the best negotiation."

  "Each man must decide."

  Dark Mountain nodded gravely, then let the matter rest. "You have a new wife, I am told."

  "Yes."

  "I have a new wife as well."

  Hawk smiled, teasing him. "You've not misplaced the old one."

  Dark Mountain grinned, shaking his head. "I have taken Little Doe, Blue Raven's sister, for my wife as well. I've a son by her now."

  "Your family grows. You're richly blessed."

  "You should have married again before now," Dark Mountain told him gravely. "Had you had two wives before ... you'd have had solace for the loss of she you loved so much."

  Hawk smiled. "It's different in my father's world, you know. A man takes but one wife. At a time, at least."

  "Because white men must worry about their belongings," Dark Mountain said with a shake of his head.

  Hawk nodded. "Yes, that can be quite true. But then again, wives can cause headaches. One at a time can be enough."

  Dark Mountain was grinning. "I've heard tales about your new wife," he said. Hawk arched a brow, though he realized his cousins Blade and Ice Raven must have been talking about the parts they had played for him in the stagecoach attack. ' 'One husband needs all his strength to sub- due her. Though for a white woman, she is said to be very beautiful, with hair just like the sun, well worth a battle."

  "She does have a fighting spirit," Hawk admitted dryly.

  "Well, even if she's much trouble, I am glad you have a wife now. You will not be alone. You've lost much, suffered much. In time, perhaps, Wakantanka will bless you with many children. When you come among us, we will do the proper ceremonies. You are a warrior who has graced his heritage. Wakantanka will listen. He will give you sons. Sons will help you remain close to your father with less pain because you will give them all that your father was, and in the telling, you will remember. Loss, my friend, is the way of life."

  Hawk nodded, smiling. He was truly glad to see Dark Mountain today. Though their paths had greatly diverged since the days when they had been boys, they remained friends, and Hawk felt certain they would remain so no matter how much time passed and no matter how dire relations grew between the hostiles and the white world.

  "I'm glad for you, Dark Mountain, that life remains rich and grows richer."

  "It grows more dangerous as well, but that is for another time. I will stay with you and your father now. Soon, others will come, and then you will give him up."

  Several hours later, Hawk sat at his desk, rubbing his temples.

  There was a tapping at the office door. "Come in," he called wearily. He'd already spent an hour with Henry Pierpont, going over his father's will—and the addendum, which he had just received. The document had arrived, duly witnessed, Henry assured him, soon after the news of his father's death. There were no surprises in it other than what he already knew: the fact that Skylar would receive Mayfair and the Sioux lands if he were to make any attempt to negate the marriage. A reading of the will wasn't necessary since he was the sole heir as long as he complied with his father's wishes. His home was by right his wife's home as well.

  It was Skylar herself who opened the door. Skylar in black velvet and silk. Despite the somber color of her gown and the severe twist of her golden hair, she looked perhaps more compelling than usual. Black became her, enhancing the glittering color of her hair, the ivory of her skin. The clean sweep of her hair emphasized the classical perfection of her throat and features. Though she had risen when he had awakened her and done quite an admirable job of taking over a household full of strangers, she had equally managed to avoid him throughout the morning and afternoon.

  "Yes?"

  "The Reverend Mathews has arrived. He's eager that the service be conducted at the graveside before dark."

  He nodded. She didn't leave.

  "Mr. Pierpont was your father's executor?"

  He arched a brow. "Yes?"

  She hesitated still. He smiled with no warmth. "I see. You are curious about whether you were mentioned in the will."

  She stiffened. He shook his head grimly. "I'm so sorry, my love. It seems my father left you—me. And your place in this house, of course." He stood. "Other than that— well, my love, I was his son. I'm his sole heir." Was it a lie? No, it was the absolut
e truth because he'd damned well comply with his father's terms. She wasn't going to walk away free with one bit of Douglas property.

  "I am quite aware that you're his heir. But I must admit that I was curious if there were any mention of how I am to live."

  He arched a brow and extended his hands. "You're to live here. Amply provided for, no?"

  "But there are little things—"

  "If you should need something, you need only say so. It will be provided for you."

  Her lashes lowered. He thought for a moment that she was in distress, and for some absurd reason, he felt a tug at his heart rather than a rise in his temper.

  But then he remembered that he was about to bury his father. And she had thought that she had married his father, had become a widow—and an heiress. The tug at his heart faded. With renewed but controlled anger, he walked around his desk, taking her arm.

  "Let's go down, shall we?"

  The company was very mixed indeed, with agency Indians, soldiers, settlers, sutlers, and their various wives gathered in the parlor. Old Sam Haggerty and Riley, who along with David Douglas had been among the first whites to stake a home in the Dakota wilderness, sat in the front row of chairs that had been set up there.

  The Reverend Mathews stood at the head of the coffin. He looked as if he might be a hundred and ten, with a full head of white hair and a face so wrinkled by the sun that it seemed to carry deep grooves. He nodded to Hawk when he saw him enter the parlor with Skylar on his arm. "My friends, we will begin."

  He started with the Lord's Prayer and then read from his prayer book. Then he stopped reading and offered a eulogy, extolling David Douglas as a man unique among men, one who recognized all of God's children, one who had made better the lives of all those he'd touched, helping those in distress.

  Hawk was surprised to see Skylar listening attentively to every word the Reverend said, seeming to fight back tears. He nearly set an arm around her to comfort her.

  But then he remembered that she had just asked him about money. Her inheritance.

  He held still, as rigid as an oak.