The Savage

by Nicole Jordan

  Summer saw Lance’s grandmother at the front of the crowd, her wizened face impassive, her piercing black eyes trained on the two combatants, and went to stand beside her. If Wasp Lady’s medicine was good, then Summer wanted to make every possible use of it.

  The two men faced off in the grassy clearing and began to circle one another, each clad in a long breechclout, each wielding a knife whose wicked blade flashed in the sun. Summer dug her nails into her palms as she focused her gaze on her husband. If the stakes hadn’t been so terribly high, she might have admired Lance’s sleek, economical movements, the animal grace of his half-naked body, the lean muscles playing under sun-dark skin. As it was, she could only pray.

  She drew a sharp breath as the opening feint and parry began. The knife blades flashed in a blur as each man looked for a weakness in his opponent. Tuhsinah was the first to make a serious move, but Lance dodged the brutal thrust, the ivory gleam of his teeth catching the sunlight as he grinned fiercely.

  His taunting amusement seemed to infuriate the other warrior. Without warning, Tuhsinah struck overhanded, yet at the last second Lance grabbed his wrist, his own teeth gritted now as he struggled to avoid the weapon wielded by his foe. The knife point was so near his eyes that the slip of a single inch would have blinded him.

  Abruptly they disengaged and began anew, circle and feint, lunge and slash, each trying to gain an advantage.

  Tuhsinah drew first blood. Lance didn’t sidestep quickly enough and the blade grazed his bare abdomen, the long, thin cut instantly welling blood. He parried the next vicious thrust, and returned one of his own, managing to nick his opponent’s upper arm close to the shoulder.

  Both men were already breathing hard with exertion. It had become a battle of Tuhsinah’s brute strength and sheer rage against Lance’s superior cunning and dexterity. To Summer’s mind, there didn’t seem to be any honorable rules of engagement. Any tactic was counted legitimate, any target fair game. Lance leveled a well-aimed kick at the Comanche’s groin, which for an instant doubled him over, but Tuhsinah promptly recovered and delivered a return blow to Lance’s thigh that nearly felled him.

  Incredibly, Lance laughed—and said something harsh that must have been an insult, for Tuhsinah gave a bellow and charged like an enraged bull, grasping Lance about the thighs in an assault that sent them both hurtling head over heels.

  They wrestled there for a moment, struggling for dominance, but in another heartbeat, they broke apart and sprang to their feet.

  The deadly dance went on for an interminable interval. Lance seemed hesitant at times, appearing to calculate the risk of his every move, while Tuhsinah seemed to grow in confidence, the cold steel blade an extension of his arm. His next offensive targeted Lance’s heart, slicing diagonally across the chest from breast to waist—and barely missed.

  Summer wanted to scream in fear, yet she didn’t dare breathe. Instead she shoved her knuckle between her teeth and bit hard, terrified more of disturbing her husband’s concentration.

  His foe stabbed again, and this time the razor point pierced Lance’s left side, tearing smooth flesh and muscle, even though a rib deflected the knife blade, which would have slid deep into his chest. Lance drew back, clutching his side, his wound dripping blood.

  A cruel gleam of triumph shone in the Comanche’s black eyes. Again he attacked, moving in for the kill.

  Summer stood paralyzed with fear, unaware that she had grasped his grandmother’s arm until Wasp Lady shook off her grip with a sound of contempt. She almost missed seeing when the two combatants tripped and fell. They sprawled in the grass, rolling together over and over.

  A deafening hush settled over the watching crowd. The two opponents grappled on the ground, muscles straining, dark skin glistening with sweat. Lance gave a grunt of pain when, lying on his back, he caught an elbow across the throat, but incredibly, he managed to twist out from under his foe and somehow gain the upper position. Straddling Tuhsinah’s broad chest with his knees, he pressed his blade against the Comanche’s throat.

  Summer’s breath caught on a sob. Had Lance won?

  She couldn’t understand the hissed command that Tuhsinah uttered, but his expression clearly said, Kill me, if you are not a coward!

  His eyes burned wildly into those of the man above him, daring him to act. Unwillingly Summer remembered the explanation Lance had given her only a short while ago, about how easy it was to slit a throat. All it would take was a single deep slice of the knife, and death would come swiftly.

  Incredibly, though, Lance slowly drew his blade away from Tuhsinah’s throat and climbed to his feet.

  One hand to her trembling mouth, Summer gaped in disbelief. The fight was supposed to have been to the death, but Lance had chosen to spare Tuhsinah’s life, an act of mercy for which the Comanche didn’t seem at all grateful, not if his smoldering glare of hate was any indication.

  Summer shook her head in stupefaction. She had no idea if Comanche custom allowed a man to walk away from mortal combat without establishing complete victory, but she had to believe it was foolish in the extreme for Lance to turn his back on his sworn enemy, leaving himself totally unprotected and open to attack.

  Her fear came true. With speed that was blinding, Tuhsinah leapt to his feet and charged, his head bent low, his knife thrust at Lance’s bare back.

  Whether Lance heard her cry of warning or Tuhsinah’s howl of rage first, Summer never knew, but Lance suddenly stepped sideways and spun on his heel at the same instant, holding his own knife out. The forward momentum carried Tuhsinah directly into the path of the blade, and his body came to a jerking halt. His fierce expression went stiff with shock, then slowly drained of all emotion.

  Lance’s own features still and cold, he let the Comanche’s lifeless form slump to the ground. Bending, he drew his knife from Tuhsinah’s chest and wiped the blade clean on the grass.

  Summer shuddered, even as she released a sob of sheer relief. Lance had survived! Dear God, it was over. Except that he was wounded, perhaps terribly.

  She would have run to him except for Wasp Lady’s restraining grasp—a grip so tight, it was painful. She waited impatiently as the Antelope Eaters collected the body of their fallen leader and mounted their horses. To her bewilderment, they rode away without a backward glance. And yet she couldn’t concern herself with them when Lance might be bleeding to death.

  She shook off his grandmother’s grasp and hastened to where Lance was standing, holding his wounded side. Yet she couldn’t get near him. He was surrounded by warriors, obviously offering him congratulations. Summer was ready to scream with frustration by the time the crowd thinned out, but as a woman—a white woman, at that—she didn’t dare interrupt them.

  Fights Bear was the last to speak to him. He clasped his brothers shoulders, pride shining in his eyes, and said something in Comanche that she knew was praise. Lance replied at length, perhaps thanking Fights Bear for his part in the successful conclusion. Only when the war chief finally left him alone did Summer step forward.

  “You’re hurt!” she exclaimed in dismay, trying to see the wound beneath Lance’s bloody fingers.

  “It’s nothing.” His gaze found hers, searching her face, trying to determine if her concern was genuine.

  Before he could decide, his grandmother came up behind Summer and launched into an angry tirade in Comanche, scolding the white woman’s behavior, saying she would never make him an adequate wife.

  Lance listened patiently for a moment, out of respect for Wasp Lady’s age and venerable position, but cut her off sharply when she accused Summer of violating the ways of the People.

  “If she errs, grandmother, it is out of ignorance, not willful disregard of our customs. She has told me that she yearns for your good opinion.”

  Somewhat mollified, the old woman grunted. “Your wounds should be tended.”

  Lance glanced at Summer, his face shuttered. “I thank you, Grandmother, but my wife will see to me.”

&nb
sp; Wasp Lady scowled, but nodded slowly and handed a small pouch to Summer. “It is good.”

  “What did she say?” Summer asked as soon as they were alone.

  “She agreed that you should be the one to tend my wounds.”

  Summer looked at him blankly. “Yes…of course.” His grandmother no doubt would be more skilled at caring for injuries, but she wanted to be the one to help him. She owed Lance that much. He had fought and won a terrible battle for her, risked death for her—more than once.

  They turned together, heading back toward the tepee belonging to Fights Bear. Summer found herself gazing in the direction the Antelope warriors had disappeared with Tuhsinah’s body. “Is it over finally? Have they gone for good?”

  “Yes, it’s over. They won’t be back. The Comanches don’t have extended blood feuds.”

  Relief shuddering through her, Summer let out her breath slowly, knowing the ending could have been very different.

  They went to Fights Bear’s tepee, since Amelia was sleeping in the one they normally used. Lance sat on a buffalo hide while Summer gathered the things he told her she would need.

  She knelt before him to examine his injuries. The cut on his abdomen was not too deep, but a stream of blood still ran from the wound in his side, where his rib had deflected Tuhsinah’s knife.

  Summer winced and made a soft exclamation of sympathy. “It must pain you terribly.”

  Lance shook his head. “It’s only a scratch. I’ve suffered far worse, believe me.”

  She did believe him, to her sorrow. Lance’s life had been more difficult than anything she wanted to imagine.

  She cleaned the cut on his abdomen and applied the salve his grandmother had given her. His stomach muscles contracted at her gentle touch, but Lance didn’t make a sound. Instead, he watched Summer as she concentrated on her task. She had caught her lower lip between her teeth, clenching the pink flesh so hard, he knew it had to sting. He had the sudden powerful urge to replace her teeth with his own, to nip that soft lower lip till she opened eagerly for him. He wanted to cover her body with his own, wanted her kiss, wanted her… Yet Summer didn’t even seem aware of what she was doing to him.

  When she had finished with the minor cut, she looked up and smiled faintly. “That wasn’t so bad. But I’m afraid the next one is much worse…”

  He had to smile back. His beautiful wife was brave enough to risk death to rescue her sister, but she couldn’t bear to see someone else in pain. “Go ahead.”

  She dribbled cool water over his side, washing the ugly wound carefully and then applying the ointment. “Lance, this really should be stitched.”

  “Just bandage it. It’ll be okay.”

  Obediently she tore away the hem of her shirt and made a bandage to cover the wound. Then she wrapped a length of buffalo sinew around his rib cage to hold the pad in place.

  When she leaned close, surrounding him with her soft scent, Lance closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.

  “Am I hurting you?” Summer asked in concern.

  Yes, she was hurting him. Her tender care was torture. The swelling in his groin had become a brutal ache. His racing blood felt hot and savage, his body throbbing with the heated lust warriors often experienced after battle.

  Gently he grasped her hand and drew it down to his loincloth, letting her feel the thrusting ridge of his manhood. He heard the sharp breath she drew, saw her lips part in surprise, and his body tightened. He wanted to hear that same feminine gasp, see that same sensual reaction, when he entered her, when he filled her.

  “Yes, you’re hurting me,” he said softly, hoarsely. “Ease my hurt, Summer.”

  She stared at him. Was he demanding payment for what he had done for her? This was hardly the place or time to be making love. This was Fights Bear’s tepee. There were dozens of people close by, and any one of them could enter at any moment.

  And yet, if Lance wanted her, she had no right to deny him. He was her husband. He had upheld his end of their bargain. He had saved her sister, at the risk of his own life; he had fought for her and won. The use of her body was a small price to pay in return. She owed him her submission, owed him whatever he wanted of her.

  But truthfully, obedience wouldn’t be her foremost reason for surrendering. She wanted to make love to this hard, courageous man. Her questioning gaze slid slowly downward. She could remember vividly their violent coupling, the play of those beautiful, sculpted muscles beneath her fingers, the feel of that strong, sinewy body thrusting against hers.

  A sudden flush of heat burgeoned in the lower regions of her stomach and spread throughout her body, upward to her breasts, downward to pool between her thighs. Her fingers clenched reflexively, pressing against his erection, and she saw the smoldering leap of flame in his ebony eyes. His grasp on her hand was not tight; he would have allowed her to pull away. But she didn’t. She would willingly accept Lance’s lovemaking, out of gratitude, if nothing else, but also because she wanted it.

  “Yes,” she whispered, her breath a bare murmur of sound.

  She saw his expression soften into a thousand readable and unreadable emotions. Releasing her wrist, he reached up to touch her face. His fingertips skirted the high plains of her cheekbones, gently tracing the softness of her skin, defining the curve of her lips.

  “Lance…what…do you want me to do?”

  Her mouth shaped the words against his fingers, but he quieted her immediately. “Hush, let me do everything.”

  He saw to her hair first. He unfastened the rawhide ties of her braids and then the braids themselves, smoothing out the waving tresses that gleamed like rich coffee. Summer had closed her eyes, as if willing to let him have his way uncontested.

  She was surrendering to him for a purpose, Lance knew. She was letting him make love to her as payment for saving her sister—and he was claiming his victory. But he could pretend otherwise. He could make believe she truly cared for him, that she was his wife in more than name only, that she wanted him nearly as much as he wanted her.

  Need shuddered through his body as he undid the buttons of Summer’s shirt and pushed aside the lapels to bare her breasts. The sight of those swelling white mounds, their nipples so rosy and taut, made him stiff with wanting. He was already iron-hard and throbbing, and yet he clamped down on his impatience, instead forcing himself to savor the delay, the anticipation of burying himself in her sweet warmth. He reached out to stroke her bare nipple, tauntingly, with the slightest of pressures.

  Summer gasped and shivered. Her eyes remained closed, and yet she was vitally aware of Lance’s nearness, his barely clad body, the sudden eagerness in her own body. The feeling was so primitive, so…needy. She suddenly wanted to be closer to Lance. She wanted to absorb his heat and sweat and man-smell and to have him absorb her.

  She heard a soft rustle and then a long silence. When she forced herself to open her eyes, she saw that he had removed his breechclout and was lying nude, powerfully lithe, on the bed of buffalo robes.

  Abruptly her attention was drawn to the masculine flesh jutting long and thick from a nest of wiry hair at his groin. Shyly Summer raised her gaze and found it colliding with Lance’s. Those black fathomless eyes were unreadable, and yet smoldered with a flame so hot, she could almost feel it. Without quite knowing what she was doing, she reached out to touch him.

  Her knuckles brushed the surging, hard, silky flesh, and Lance groaned as if in pain. He wouldn’t let her continue, either, but shifted his hips to pull away.

  “Summer…come here,” he commanded, his voice dipping into hoarseness.

  He drew her down on top of him with total disregard for his bandaged ribs. Summer tried to spare him her weight, but he was having none of her hesitation. His arms came around her to hold her tightly against him.

  “Lance, I’ll hurt you....”

  “Hush, princess…”

  He started to kiss her, and her mouth went warm and yielding against his. Suddenly, though, he broke off the kiss. �
�You’re right…Not this way.”

  “What way, then…?”

  He showed her what he wanted. Easing her onto her back, he loosened the bone button of her skirt and drew the bunched deerskin down over her hips, till she lay naked before him except for her open shirt.

  His heart seemed to swell at the sight. She was so beautiful, his chest ached. So lovely, he thought he might die if he didn’t have her right then. He wanted to thrust hard into her, to claim her, to whisper, “You’re mine, you’ve always been mine,” but he controlled the fierce urge. Instead, he moved over her, resting his weight gently between her parted thighs. This wouldn’t be a brutal taking like the last time. This would be a new beginning, a new start for their marriage.

  Lowering his head, he buried his face against her breasts.

  Summer couldn’t prevent a soft whimper. His whiskered cheek was warm, abrasive, making her sensitive nipples prickle and tingle. He kissed her then, his lips nibbling at the tips of her breasts, his tongue tracing burning kisses around her fullness.

  She tried to clutch at his hair, but he shook off her clinging hands and rose up on his knees. Looking along the naked length of her body, he slowly smoothed his hands up the insides of her bare, silken thighs, till his thumbs nestled in the dark curls that covered her femininity.

  “Lance…no…” Summer protested breathlessly, and yet her entire body clenched with nervous anticipation.

  His lips curved in a way that was not quite a smile, but rather an expression of triumph. They both knew he could compel her surrender; they both knew he would.

  “Last time was way too rough,” he whispered. “Let me make it better for you.”

  Those were the only words he spoke for a long while. Purposefully he lowered his mouth to her and began the sweet torment, brushing his lips over her, kissing her most intimate, dewy places, savoring, arousing her in the most primitive way possible. For a while it was all she could do to keep from moaning, and then the hot stroke of his tongue found her and she didn’t care who heard her cries.