Summer had left her crinoline petticoats behind at the Belknap station so she could ride without hindrance, but now she discarded her traveling suit and camisole and corset as well. When she would have kept on her chemise and drawers, though, Topusana shook her head vigorously, saying in broken English that so many clothes would make her too hot when the sun shone.
Reluctantly Summer jettisoned the last remnants of civilization and covered her nakedness with a long, shapeless deerskin dress that reached below her knees. The fringed bodice was a bit too small for her bosom, and pushed against her naked breasts in a way that made her feel indecently exposed. Like any lady, she was accustomed to wearing layers and layers of undergarments beneath her voluminous gowns, and a single layer of soft deerskin hardly felt like being dressed. The thigh-high leggings and moccasins Topusana gave her didn’t seem to help much, either.
When the Comanche woman suddenly left the room, Summer felt deserted. But then Lance appeared in the doorway. He stopped short when he saw her, his black eyes narrowing.
Nervously Summer smoothed the skirt of her new costume. She had no mirror, but she knew she must look a sight, if Lance’s odd expression was anything to judge by. “Do I look that bad?” she asked uncertainly.
He didn’t answer at once. He couldn’t, and keep his voice steady. She didn’t look like the spoiled, regal Miss Weston now. The plain, primitive garment stripped her of pride and pretense, making her seem as simple and innocent as any shy Comanche maiden. Except for the color of her complexion, that is. Her face was flushed with sun from the long hours of riding, since her bonnet hadn’t protected her fully, but it looked like the flush of passion. Lance wished like hell it were.
He swallowed hard, wishing also that he could quell the sudden swelling ache in his loins. Ever since Yarby’s assault, he’d managed to conquer his brutal lust for her, not wanting to add to Summer’s fear of him. But the temptation now to give in to it was riding him hard.
“Don’t I look all right?”
Lance gritted his teeth. He could tell Summer how beautiful he found her, how desirable, but she knew that damned well already. He hadn’t kowtowed to her vanity five years ago, and he wasn’t about to start now.
“You look okay,” he answered gruffly. “Except for your hair. Comanche women don’t pin it up like that. They wear it short and hanging free, or long in a braid.”
“Oh.”
“Take your hair down.”
His voice had softened perceptibly. Obediently she reached up and pulled out the pins. Shaking the chignon free, she let the long, dark mass fall down her back, feeling Lance’s hot eyes on her all the while. His command reminded her of their wedding night, when he’d made her undress and stand naked before him. Except that this was somehow more intimate, more powerful. Then, she hadn’t known what to expect. Her carnal knowledge then had been limited to stolen kisses. Now she knew how it felt to find pleasure in a man’s embrace, to experience passion at his hands.
Summer found herself quivering at the memory, at the sensations that memory aroused. Much of that night seemed like a dream, yet she could still vividly remember the feel of Lance’s fingers threading softly through her hair, stroking it, stroking her body.
She knew for a moment he must be sharing the same thought, for he took a step toward her, a harsh look of need on his face.
Afraid of what she saw there—the searing intensity, the naked glitter of want in his eyes—Summer took an involuntary step backward. Lance looked like he might assault her right there, like he might tear off her clothes and take her body as he’d almost done on their wedding night, regardless of the present circumstances. But they weren’t alone. There were other people—strangers in the next room.
“Lance…” She glanced nervously toward the open door.
He stopped abruptly and slanted a look over his shoulder. When he turned back, his eyes not only had lost their molten heat, they’d gone cold. For a moment, Lance stared at her, his gaze transmitting the silent message: You’re my wife. You should be sleeping with me.
Yet he made no move to enforce his rights.
His features hardening, he turned to go. “Get some sleep. We’ve got a hard ride tomorrow,” he growled before shutting the door forcefully behind him.
Alone, Summer stared in bewilderment and frustration and rising irritation, wishing she had handled the situation better, had handled Lance better. Wishing she didn’t feel such keen disappointment at her husband’s abrupt departure.
She took Lance’s advice, though. After making use of the wash water Topusana had provided her to take a quick sponge bath, Summer donned her nightgown for what she feared might be the last time and curled up on a mattress covered with buffalo robes. She fell asleep almost before her head touched the pillow.
It seemed like only a few moments later when she felt someone shaking her awake. Squinting in the dim light of a lantern, Summer saw a shadow looming over her, an ominous, violent figure that resembled the terrible specters in her nightmares.
She sat up abruptly, but her choked scream died to a breathless gasp as she recognized Lance. He stood over her, his legs spread slightly, his hard face a mask of defiance.
He was naked from the waist up, except for a necklace made of bear claws that hung halfway down his smooth bronzed chest. Below the waist he wore only moccasins and a long breechclout that left the sides of his legs bare and showed powerful horseman’s thighs rippling with muscle. His straight black hair was held back from his face with a headband of red deerskin, which only emphasized his high cheekbones and broad forehead.
His eyes traveled over her contemptuously as she clutched the covers to her breast. “Get dressed, princess. We’re riding out in ten minutes.”
Her pounding heart settled down a degree, but her temper flared as she realized he had deliberately tried to frighten her. “Damn you, you did that on purpose!” she hissed rather hysterically.
“Did what?”
“Dressed up like an Indian to frighten me.”
His mouth curled at the corner. “Better get used to it. It’s what I am. Get dressed—wear the clothes Topusana gave you, and put a scarf or something over your head to protect you from the sun. Hurry up. I won’t wait for you.”
He turned on his heel and disappeared as quietly as he’d come. Willing her heartbeat to slow down, Summer clenched her teeth. “You don’t scare me, Lance Calder,” she muttered beneath her breath, determined to make it the truth.
To her dismay, however, she found Lance just as disturbing when she went outside a short while later, where he was loading the packhorse with the various goods he’d collected. In the dawn light he seemed even more threatening, if that was possible. Most of his bronzed body was exposed to her gaze, his limbs and torso rippling with hard muscle, and he moved silently, with the raw power and grace of a predator.
Was he naked beneath the loincloth?
Flushing, Summer silently cursed herself for entertaining such a shameful thought, and for feeling such a powerful attraction. Such confusing sexual urges alarmed her. This wasn’t like her—this couldn’t be her. She was a lady…a gently-bred virgin. And yet she couldn’t deny the weakness that had stolen over her limbs, the aroused heat that pooled between her thighs at the sight of Lance standing half-naked in front of her.
Forcibly Summer clasped her hands together as she fought back the shocking urge to touch him. For the first time in her life she wanted a man, truly wanted—wanted his body, wanted him to touch her and take her in his arms and join with her. To teach her the secrets between a man and a woman that she had only glimpsed on their wedding night.
Determinedly Summer ground her teeth until they ached. Perhaps it wasn’t so reprehensible, desiring Lance; he was her husband by law, after all. But it was entirely inappropriate under the circumstances to be lusting after him. She had to remember her sister’s terrible plight.
“Do you suppose you could put on a shirt?” she demanded irritably, even as she avo
ided his gaze.
“No,” Lance answered just as curtly. “I like being free of civilized clothes. And I’m not going to suffer from the heat just to satisfy your notions of modesty.”
Without waiting for permission, he lifted her into the saddle and vaulted onto his horse’s back. He’d exchanged her Mexican saddle for an Indian one—a wooden frame tree covered with buffalo hide, with a high pommel and cantle—but he rode bareback, with only a loop of plaited buffalo hair for a bridle. His roan horse was loaded with weapons, though—his Henry rifles and a bow and quiver of arrows he’d gotten from somewhere.
She had no trouble picturing Lance as a Comanche warrior. At the moment he looked just as savage. Indeed, he looked supremely dangerous, a danger that beckoned and taunted.
She was grateful when Deek and his wife came out to see them off. She had already thanked Topusana for the use of the dress, but she repeated her thanks and accepted with gratitude the hide pouch the Comanche woman handed her which she was told contained food for their journey.
As they set out, Lance gave her a single warning. “We run into trouble, you do exactly as I say, do you hear me?” Then he lapsed into the same smoldering silence that had punctuated their previous day’s journey.
The land they traveled was beautiful in a raw, lonely sort of way. They might have been the only two people on earth for all the company they encountered.
As they crossed the river valley, they hugged the hills at the eastern edge of the flat prairie, taking the high ground if given a choice. It provided better cover, Summer suspected.
Once, when his horse snorted, Lance held up a hand in a gesture to halt and lifted his rifle. A few minutes later he moved on.
“Panther,” was all he said.
She wondered how he had known, but sensing his disinclination to talk, she asked only one question. “How long will it take to reach your people’s camp?”
“Two days, if they’re at Otter Creek. More if we have to look farther.”
It was several hours later before Summer realized Lance had a purpose in taking this route. Detouring through a gully, he led her to a dead end at the base of a ridge. When he dismounted and pulled away the brush and thicket, however, she could see a crevice in the wall.
Telling her to wait, he entered the cave and shortly emerged carrying a long lance whose red cloth covering was decorated with eagle feathers, and a round shield of buffalo hide painted with a primitive picture of racing horses.
“Are those yours?” Summer was surprised into asking.
“No, I stole them from a passing sailor,” Lance replied sarcastically.
“Well, excuse me for wondering!” Summer snapped back.
He gave her a sharp glance, but offered a gruff explanation as he grabbed a handful of mane and swung up on his horse’s back. “I hid them here when I left my people. I didn’t think the good citizens of Texas would take too well to me carrying Comanche weapons.”
She wanted to ask why he had left, but doubted he cared to discuss it. She bit her tongue as they set off again.
As the day wore on, they headed northwest across flat open prairie. Watching him mile after mile, Summer couldn’t help comparing this Lance to the one she’d been acquainted with most of her life. She wouldn’t have known him if she met him on the street. He looked every inch the fierce Comanche warrior, as if he belonged to the land and the wind. And she was too fiercely attracted to him for her peace of mind. All too frequently she found herself staring spellbound at his barbaric handsomeness, fascinated by his primal masculine beauty.
Late that afternoon, Lance found a place that offered shelter and fresh water and forage for the horses. A slight rise in the terrain had been hollowed out by a stream to form a gully and was protected by a cedar brake. He halted the horses, saying they would stop there for the night.
“You feel well enough to make yourself useful?” he asked as he dismounted.
Summer nodded. She had ridden just as hard today as yesterday, but surprisingly she didn’t feel quite so terribly exhausted.
“Good. I’m tired of pampering you.”
She might not be as physically drained as before, but three and a half difficult days of traveling in a stagecoach, and two harder days of riding horseback through wilderness, had made Summer’s temper raw. Her anger flared at his gibe. “I never asked you to pamper me!”
Lance snorted. “No, you just expect it as your due.”
Summer gritted her teeth as he came around to her side. “Just tell me how you want me to help.”
“You know how to cook?”
“Some. We have household servants at home—the vaqueros’ wives—so it isn’t often necessary.”
Lance’s mouth curled as he lifted her down from her horse. “When we reach my brother’s camp, you’re going to have to pitch in. Women perform all the work in a Comanche village, and they won’t understand if you don’t.”
“I’ll do my fair share.”
His gaze scornful, he lifted one of her hands and peeled back the glove to inspect it. The palm was soft and white and obviously unaccustomed to hard physical labor or anything but the light chores expected of a lady. “What do you do every day if you have all those servants? Play lady of the manor?”
Irritated by his smug look of triumph, Summer jerked her hand back—and saw a muscle in Lance’s jaw tighten. “Actually, I’ve spent the years since my father died running our ranch—which happens to entail more brains than brawn.”
“Fix us some supper while I see to the horses,” he said brusquely as he turned away.
“Should I make a fire?”
“No, I don’t want to risk it.”
Involuntarily Summer cast a worried glance around the small clearing. “Is it dangerous here?”
“No more dangerous than any place else, but there’s no need to advertise our whereabouts. I don’t believe in inviting trouble.”
They worked in silence for a time. Lance unloaded the supplies, then watered and hobbled the horses while Summer searched through the provisions. By the time he returned, she had arranged a blanket beside the stream and laid out a meal of dried beef and apples and the last of the cornbread Topusana had made them.
Lance settled himself cross-legged on the edge of the blanket, far enough away that Summer had to lean over to hand him his food. Just then the angle of the fading sun caught her face, highlighting the vivid bruise on her jaw. The sight sent fury streaking through Lance.
He’d vowed not to touch her, but he couldn’t stop himself. Raising his hand, he gently brushed the vicious mark with the pad of his thumb. “That bastard hurt you,” he breathed.
Wincing at the memory of Frank Yarby’s fist gripping her chin, Summer drew back abruptly. She saw the swift anger that claimed Lance’s features before a cold wall slammed down to shutter his expression.
Without comment he took a bite of the sandwich she’d made him, but he was seething inside. Every time she flinched from him, it made him madder than hell—and it was damn well time he put a stop to it.
“You better learn not to jump out of your skin every time I touch you, princess, or you won’t have any skin left.”
“I don’t do that.”
“Sure you do. You’re scared to death I’m going to do something to you that you won’t like. But you’d better get used to me touching you.”
His tone was so harsh, so threatening, that Summer had a hard time swallowing her food. The look she sent him was anxious, wary. “You wouldn’t…”
“Force myself on you?” He smiled coldly. “I told you not to worry, princess. I’m not gonna ravish your pure white body.”
Summer glanced again around the secluded clearing. They were all alone, out in the middle of nowhere. There was no one to prevent Lance from doing anything he wanted to her. He could throw her down on the ground and take her if he wanted to. Legally, he even had the right.
He must have read her thoughts, for his mouth twisted. “I’m not the unprincipled
brute you think I am.”
“I…I don’t.”
“Sure you do.”
No, Summer reflected in confusion. At times she thought Lance boorish, ill bred, bad-tempered, and uncivil, but she knew he had principles of a sort, even if they didn’t always match hers. And while he might have a belligerent disposition, she didn’t think he would deliberately hurt her.
“You can rest easy, princess,” Lance said, watching her. “I’m not even going to try to bed you.”
His grim declaration surprised her so much that she blurted out her reply without thinking. “Why not?”
He met her gaze with a hard one of his own. “You mean why won’t I claim my lawful rights, even though you’re my wife?”
She hadn’t meant to start this indelicate conversation, but now that she had, she wanted an answer, to know what Lance expected of her, of their marriage. “Yes. Why haven’t you…” She flushed and fell silent.
Because I can’t bear seeing the fear in your eyes when I touch you. Because if I touch you, I’ll lose control, Lance said viciously to himself. I get too close, and my pride will shatter He looked away. Losing control was something he wouldn’t permit himself to do; relinquishing his pride was something he couldn’t allow. Pride was the only defense he had against his magnolia-skinned, honey-voiced wife. Summer might turn him inside out, but wild horses couldn’t make him admit it to her.
Lance clenched his teeth, renewing his determination not to feel the things she made him feel, to want the things she made him want.
But there were other reasons, too. Reasons that went beyond lust or pride.
“I don’t want to make it any worse for you,” he answered finally. “You’re having a hard enough time as it is.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m an outcast. I’ve branded you the same.”
She couldn’t dispute that. The whites she’d come in contact with since her marriage had shown her nothing but contempt.
“Besides,” he said, his voice dropping, “I don’t want to leave you breeding. If something happened to me, you’d have to raise my kid alone, and I’m not going to do that to some poor little devil.”
The Savage Page 14
