Tame the Wildest Heart

by Parris Afton Bonds

  Gordon scrubbed her shoulders vigorously. The cloth worked its way down her spine and upward to her nape, then slid under each of her arms. Next, it swooshed down past her navel.

  “I can do that meself, thank ye very much!”

  “Oh, but I insist.”

  She could tell he was taking great pleasure in tormenting her for a change.

  Then, he knelt beside her, his face even with her own, and worked the cloth between her thighs. “For all that you’re small-built, you’re perfectly formed, Mattie McAlister.”

  In his eyes she could see the ember of passion glowing, growing, filling his green-rimmed pupils.

  Her eyes closed against that sudden flare of desire she saw deep in his. The heat simmering in the pit of her stomach, far down, bubbled over, flooded her cavities with a rushing, swelling desire. That desire thundered its need against her eardrums.

  Common sense, logic, conscience were drowned in this passion. It was alien to her, and since she had never experienced it, she did not know how to deal with it. To fight or to yield.

  After being a captive all those years, she had committed herself to becoming autonomous. In doing so, she had given up her right to intimacy. She had disassociated herself from the chance of having a loving man for her mate. All these years, she had fought. For just this one moment, she would yield.

  She sighed. Without quite realizing it, her legs parted farther. His fingers, covered by the cloth, were allowed entrance. Her hips shifted, swayed, created their own current within the water.

  Then the fingers were gently withdrawn. Her eyes snapped open. Gordon was slipping his hands beneath her arms, raising her from the water, cradling her against his chest. His body warmed hers.

  “I’m dripping all over your shirt.”

  His savage mouth silenced hers. Still holding her lips prisoner, he carried her across the room and lowered her onto the bed. Only then did he set her free—only long enough to shrug out of his wet shirt and shuck his dusty pants.

  He was built so beautifully, she thought, watching him from a pillow that was becoming rapidly soaked by her heavy, wet hair. She couldn’t even remember Reggie, who apparently had been an average specimen of the male. Nantez reminded her of one of the Grimm brothers’ trolls. Squat, ugly, prehistoric.

  Gordon was long of limb and roped with muscles. Articulate, too. “The heart only lives when it loves, Mattie. Give into love. You won’t be hurt.”

  But ’tis not me ye love, she wanted to scream.

  Of course, Gordon Halpern was talking of that passion of the bodies. Something she had never quite understood. Romance and chivalry, such as her literary diet had yielded—Dante, Boccaccio, Shakespeare—those things she could understand. Even be excited by. But this primitive passion . . . .

  Yet she gave in to the mystery of his passion. She raised her hands to cup the dark face leaning over hers and draw it down until their lips touched once more. She would have sworn her action elicited surprise in him, but then her eyes closed and she gave into the wonderful feeling of . . . feeling. Just feeling.

  Of itself, the act of kissing was wondrous. Of lips touching each other, then touching here and there on the face. The underside of her chin, his eyelid, her earlobe. Then their lips returned to claim one another, as if in need of replenishment.

  His tongue tip, stroking her lips, sought entrance to her mouth. His hand glided over the rising mound of her breast, paused, then moved on to claim her rebellious little nipple.

  The shock of both, his hand and his invading tongue, made her tense for a fraction of a second.

  Then, incredibly, her body overrode her brain. Her repressed passion overcame her caution. With a moan, she responded touch for touch, kiss for kiss, murmur for murmur. “Halpern, me dear, ye are so grand . . . there.”

  He chuckled. His weight eased partially down over her. “And you are so small . . . there.”

  A furious blush heated her skin. “I am made like other women?” It was a hopeful question.

  “Made like other women? Commonly so.” His mouth covered her breasts with kisses in between breaths. “But think like other women? Impossible.”

  Her disappointment was followed by nervous curiosity. “How so?” Catching his jaw, she stopped his kisses. Lifted it so that she could see into his eyes. “Do I not think . . . think properly enough? Have I been too bold?”

  Another chuckle. “No, no. You are free-spirited. You have a mind—and will, I might add—of your own. An entrancing conversationalist, you are, Mattie. No discussions of knitting and babies, but ribald stories of poker games and Indian tricks and—”

  “But I love babies and . . .”

  He was still kissing her, had worked his way down to her navel. " . . . and you are a wonderful mother. I see this in things you do. You are there for Albert. Always. No matter what. Whether it’s pain or fear or lack.”

  A part of her mind wondered what they were doing talking while their bodies were making this fantastic pleasure.

  Gordon, shifting his weight full atop her, gave her that answer: “It’s because of all this that I am drawn to you, my charming renegade.”

  She looked up into his face, so close to her own. “You are drawn to me? To me? To the wild, wanton Mattie McAlister?”

  “Oh, yes,” he whispered against her ear. His breath made her feel all tingly; his mustache tickled in a most pleasant way. “Very much.”

  His weight was heavy. She felt him, too, large and heavy between her thighs. Seeking, prodding, entering slowly, slightly, withdrawing, then once again nudging.

  “You are like no other person. I’ve met the lowborn and the highborn. You are neither. And yet both. Forever Mattie.”

  She peered up at him through narrowed eyes. Was this a compliment? She pushed at him. She managed to roll from beneath him. “No, Halpern. Ye are merely satisfying your dark side.”

  He jackknifed upright. “What?”

  “Ye heard me.” She levered herself up onto her elbows. Her breasts sloped forward to pouting points. Naked, breathing hard, she and Gordon faced each other. “Come to me with love in ye heart. Not just in your head.”

  “Did it ever cross your mind that I am married?”

  “Did it cross yours?”

  That black scowl of his took over. “Too often, lately.” She was paradoxically pleased by his admission. “Ye will stay with her if we find her?”

  “Yes.” His blunt reply stole her hope. “To do otherwise would make less of me.”

  Had she only been so loved. Urbane, charming Reggie, in his flight during the Apache raid, had not even paused to look back and make sure she was safe. But Gordon, the killer of men, was gentle of heart. How could that be? Had she been so socially deprived during her captivity that she had failed to grasp the concept of what the Netdahe shaman had called the “True of Heart?”

  She rolled away from Gordon, pulling the spread with her to cover her nudity. “Halpern, a terrible thing has happened. I have fallen in love with ye.” She saw that beastly twitch of his mustache. Her oddity must indeed amuse him. “I could refuse to help ye find your wife, but I know ye would barter with the devil himself to help get her back. So I’ll help ye in your quest. But be warned. Once we find her, you’re on your own.”

  “For God’s sake, Mattie. I told you, I’m married. I don’t have any choice.”

  She picked up the bar of soap and hurled it at him. He ducked. It knocked over the statue of the Virgin in the niche. “Ye made the choice to make love to me!”

  He lunged across the bed and grabbed her arm, jerking her back down onto the mattress with him. “Don’t put all this on me. You admitted you were drawn to me.”

  She squirmed beneath him. “But ye acted upon it. I won’t be an incident in your life. Or anyone’s for that matter. I am worth too much for that.”

  His iron-strong grasp stilled her flailing hands. “Don’t you think I know that, Mattie McAlister? You’re unforgettable.”

  “I tire of th
is sparring with words.”

  “You need to be made love to. We all do. Men and women were made to be loved. To be touched and held and stroked and caressed.”

  His voice was a caress in itself. She was yielding to its mesmeric tone when a rap at the door interrupted them. From the other side, a masculine voice delivered a message in Spanish.

  At Gordon’s quizzical look, she explained wryly, “The colonel requests our presence now for dinner. It would appear your sacrificial virgin has been spared.”

  “For the moment. And I much prefer the town tart.”

  § CHAPTER TWELVE §

  Heat from the dining table’s candles, as well as those in the wall sconces, flushed Mattie’s cheeks. Or mayhap erotic memories of an hour earlier were responsible for her “uncommon good looks,” as Colonel Morales put it upon seeing her. Indeed, the two sergeants also present eyed her with . . . surely, it couldn’t be admiration.

  Her skin glowed from Gordon’s rigorous scrubbing. Its natural rose undertone was due to her Scottish heritage.

  True, her hair, though clean and lustrous, looked like a bird’s nest according to Gordon. She had refused his suggestion to draw her heavy hair up into a neat cluster of curls and coils.

  She still wore the rank leather skirt but had changed smocks. The black velveteen blouse she had donned had a scooped neck and was fringed with tiny seed-shells sewn by one of Nantez’s squaws.

  Wearing the blouse set off a line of questioning that was leading in a dangerous direction. “Your blusa, señora,” the colonel said. “It looks Indian tailored. Apache work, if I am not mistaken.”

  Across from her, Gordon shot her a veiled look of concern. All she could think of was the tender, raging passion his touch engendered in her. She forced herself to focus on the officer.

  “Aye, that it is, Colonel Morales. We bought it off a blanket Indian at Fort Bowie. An old Apache, I am told.” She leaned forward and flashed the little man a warm, disarming smile. “I would love to buy more. Can you tell me if any Apaches live in the area?”

  He fingered one end of his mustache, as if trying to make up his mind about her. At last, he said, “You do realize, señora, that they are very dangerous people?”

  “Savages. Subhumans,” Bingham said. He abstained from the wine but stabbed at the baked pozole and Albert’s goose with a gourmand’s relish. “‘They seize bow and spear; they are cruel and have no mercy.’ Thus sayeth the Lord.”

  “I’ve heard that they are indeed dangerous,” Mattie said, accepting the bolillos proffered by a Mexican servant boy. “But the Apaches we saw at Fort Bowie seemed so tame.”

  “One of their principal chiefs in our area is far from tame, señora. Nantez is cruelty incarnate.”

  At the mention of his father, Albert perked up. Thus far he had been silent, downing his food like a starved wolf cub.

  Before joining the soldiers in the sala, Mattie had warned him to say nothing about his father. “There are those who would want to harm you if they suspect you are Nantez’s son,” she had told him. If Albert had been brought up in the security of civilized society, she would have had qualms about being so blunt with the child. But Albert was well acquainted with murder and violence.

  Did she really think she could introduce him to what she had once considered the white society’s civilizing influence? After four years at Fort Lowell, she wasn’t so certain that white society was any better. Human nature was human nature wherever one found it.

  She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the edge of the massive mahogany table. It was so old, it had been worn smooth by both hand polishing and diners’ arms. “You said this Nantez is in the area?”

  “His base camp is deep in Cusarare Canyon.”

  Cusarare Canyon. The name was familiar. “How far is this place?”

  “At the edge of Terra Incognita . . . the Void of the Canyons. You will never find your way there without a guide. Nor would you want to, señora. ”

  “Terra Incognita?” Gordon asked, twirling the fragile stem of his fluted glass between his powerful fingers. “Is that on any map?”

  “No. No one knows where it is but the Indians who roam it. The Yaquis, the Tarahumaras, the Apaches.”

  “Colonel?”

  Everyone turned toward the sala door that had been opened by a nervous-looking soldier. He spoke in rapid Spanish. Mattie pretended to be occupied with the breaded goat meat, but the private’s message rang an alarm in her: two soldiers, afoot, had wandered into the compound.

  “Perdonenme,” the colonel said to those at the table and placed his napkin to the left of his plate. “I have a matter to attend to.”

  The other two officers did not speak good English, and in the colonel’s absence, the conversation fumbled along in a horrendous combination of the two languages. Mattie desperately wanted to alert Bingham and Gordon. Maybe the three arrivals weren’t the same three they had unhorsed back at the creek bed, but her intuition warned otherwise.

  At last, the colonel reentered the room. She watched his face closely for any telltale signs of change of disposition. Were those black-beaded eyes more suspicious than earlier?

  “My regrets, señores, señora.” He reseated himself, placed his napkin on his lap.

  She breathed easier—until he snapped his fingers, telling the hovering boy to fetch the two soldiers, then said to her and the others, “Some visitors have arrived whom I think you may know.”

  She gave Gordon a frantic look. His brows met across the bridge of his nose in a perplexed expression. She gave a little warning shake of her head, and he nodded.

  Then she flashed Bingham the same warning glance. He looked from her to the doorway.

  At that moment, the boy entered the dining room. He was followed by the very two she had dreaded.

  The rotund sergeant was the first to recognize her and the others. His fat finger pointed like a pistol at Bingham. “Alli! That’s the one,” he cried out in Spanish. “That’s the one who held us up and killed Diego and stole our horses!”

  Colonel Morales spread his hands. “My very own guests at our supper table. They break bread with me, drink my wine, and all the time they have betrayed me.”

  As if a message had passed on telegraph wires between them, Gordon and Bingham shot to their feet. They turned the table onto its side. Dishes, glasses, serving utensils crashed to the floor. Glass splintered. Candles sputtered hot wax.

  Mattie and Albert jumped back from the flying debris.

  At the same time, additional soldiers poured through the door. A total of fifteen rifles were aimed at the four guests. Faced with this, they all froze.

  “Basta!” the colonel said. “Enough.” He turned to the fat soldier, Gordo, and motioned toward them. “Estos son?”

  The soldier nodded, his chins quivering like pudding. “Si!”

  The colonel smiled. “Well then, we now have ourselves a child and three thieves. And what does one do with three thieves?”

  One of the sergeants answered in Spanish, “Crucify them, mi coronel.”

  She didn’t bother with translating. Their fate was obvious.

  “Boy. Come here.” Colonel Morales said.

  Albert flicked her a glance. What choice was there? She nodded. Tentative steps took the nine-year-old toward the officer.

  He put his fist beneath Albert’s jaw and tilted the little face upward. “Si, this one does look like an Indian, sergeant. He will make a good servant.”

  The breath eased out of her. At least, Albert would not be killed. There was a chance for him. He could find a way to escape and make his way back to his father. Even life with Nantez was better than death. This philosophy was what had sustained her when she was with Nantez.

  However, the colonel wasn’t finished. “The boy’s ears will fetch a good price in Mexico City.”

  “No!” she bellowed. She charged forward like a berserk buffalo enraged at her young being harmed. Short of being shot by all fifteen rifles, nothing could s
top her. The sheer foolishness of her act caught the soldiers by surprise.

  In less than an instant, her act communicated itself to Gordon and Bingham. As one, they hefted either end of the overturned table and stormed forward with it as a shield. A formidable ploy.

  The startled soldiers did not know whether to fire or where to fire if they did. A few turned and ran. At the door, they jammed up. The table pinned several soldiers against the wall, and Colonel Morales among them. Dropping his end of the table, Gordon swept up one of the abandoned rifles and spun toward Colonel Morales. The officer was trying to push his way clear of the table.

  “Stop!” Gordon ordered. “Now!”

  The colonel and the other soldiers still pinned all halted. If they did not understand English, then the rifle’s menacing snout spoke to them clearly. Of the dozen still in the room, all raised their hands. Weapons clattered to the floor.

  In accord, Bingham and Albert began collecting them. Hastily. The soldiers looked as if they were just realizing that their superiority of numbers had had the advantage.

  Gordon nodded at the table. “Move it. Out of our way.”

  At once, three soldiers nearest him complied. Then all the soldiers stepped away from the door. Absurdly, they appeared to form the parallel lines for saluting couples wedded in military ceremonies.

  She and Albert hurried through the human hallway. Gordon and Bingham, weapons in hand, followed, walking backward, their eyes and rifles trained on the soldiers.

  At the last moment, Gordon pointed his rifle at Morales. “You’re going with us. If your men attempt to stop us, a bullet stops your heart.”

  So that everyone understood, Mattie translated Gordon’s order into Spanish.

  Morales’s helpless fury was replaced by a fear that manifested in his darting gaze. A trapped rat. Then, he managed a nod and followed them down the corridor of upraised hands.

  “Mattie,” Gordon said, “you and Albert collect our gear. Meet us at the stables.”

  She and Albert sped down the colonnaded walkway. Albert ran into the room he and Bingham had been sharing. She dashed into theirs, assembled their strewn possessions. Arms full, she whirled to go.