The Savage

by Nicole Jordan

  He caressed her till she thought she might scream with the pleasure of it. His fevered lips made her writhe, his tongue drove her to the point of madness. When her climax came suddenly, the surge was so explosive, she shook with the power of it.

  She lay quivering beneath him, vaguely wondering if her shattered pieces would ever mend.

  Then she felt him move over her. Her eyes were almost blind with passion, but when she looked up, she could see light and darkness moving in his.

  He settled his body over hers carefully, poising above her. She saw the anticipation in him, and it went beyond uncomplicated lust. She saw determination and desire and fierce longing.

  He entered her slowly, with as much care as if she were still his virgin bride—and yet she felt the hardness of his sweat-slick body contract against her, as if the effort at control was almost too much for him. When finally Lance lay sheathed tightly inside her, her breath shallowed to a sigh. The feeling was so sweet, so satisfying, that she never wanted it to end. Except that it did end, and she was glad. When he withdrew in a slow, lingering stroke, he rekindled the passion fire that had only been smoldering in her.

  She whimpered his name pleadingly as he came into her again. His tenderness was too gentle for her, too tame, too unsatisfying. Wanting, needing, to draw him deeper, Summer moved her clutching fingers down his sinewed back, over his narrow hips, till she could hold him closer. She felt his masculine buttocks harden in her hands as he thrust faster, deeper, with more gratifying fierceness.

  “Summer…” Her name was a hoarse plea as he fought for control.

  “Please…” Her reply was just as rasping as she responded to his passion, urging him on.

  With a low, primitive growl of need and dominance, his control broke. His hot, hungry mouth found hers as he drove into her relentlessly.

  Sobbing, Summer clung to him. She didn’t care about his violence, his crushing weight, the pounding force of his assault. She was too wrapped up in the drugging heat and man-smell of his body, too overwhelmed by the sensations exploding through her to feel anything but need.

  They came at the same moment, their bodies contracting and shuddering together, his hoarse shout mingling with her gasping sobs.

  Lance came to his senses first, to find himself collapsed heedlessly on Summer. Still panting for breath, his flesh wounds burning, he rolled partially onto his uninjured side, still joined to her, not letting her go. He buried his face in her hair, wondering if the urgency would ever lessen, if his need would ever diminish. He had practically raped her again, when what he really wanted was to safeguard and pleasure and worship her with his body.

  Contritely he pressed his lips against the smooth, damp skin of her temple, and cursed himself silently. He didn’t have much practice caring for someone, but he knew a lot about control, about keeping his feelings under tight rein. He sure as hell didn’t know himself when he was near Summer, though. He acted like a damned rutting stallion around her. She was his wife, for Crisssakes, not some whore he could take roughly any time he felt like it. He ought to treat her more gently, but every time he got close to her, he exploded like a sex-starved kid.

  He had to get control of himself. Summer was his now. He had won her fairly. There was always the chance that she would renege on their bargain, but he hoped to God he didn’t have to fear such betrayal from her. He had upheld his end, and she would do the same with hers. Summer might not love him, but she would honor her word.

  And maybe, in time, she might come to feel something for him, some fraction of the gut-deep, heartsick longing that had tied him up in knots ever since he was a kid.

  “Kamakuna.” He spoke softly in Comanche, but he didn’t realize what he’d said until he felt her stir in his arms.

  “What did you say?” Summer murmured, her voice sleepy, replete.

  Lance remained silent, regretting that he had let the endearment slip out.

  “You said something…just now…I didn’t understand.”

  “Nothing, it wasn’t important.”

  He wasn’t willing to answer with the truth, that he had called her his love. He couldn’t admit his weakness to Summer. A Comanche warrior was supposed to be strong, invincible, unafraid. He wouldn’t divulge his terror of earning her scorn.

  His private thoughts would stay secret—unless he voiced them in Comanche. In Indian language he could reveal all the things he felt for Summer. He could tell her how beautiful she was, how much he wanted her, needed her. How glad he was to have her for his wife. He could bare his love-sick soul…

  As long as she couldn’t understand what he was saying.

  Chapter 15

  The immediate danger was over, but the struggle to save her sister was more difficult than Summer ever expected. Amelia lay in a stupor of exhaustion, unable or unwilling to come out of her trance. Summer began to fear for her sanity. More than anything she wanted to take Amelia home to Sky Valley, where she could be safe, but at Lance’s insistence, they remained at the Comanche camp for nearly a week to give Amelia time to recover for the long journey ahead.

  Summer never left her bedside, hour after hour speaking softly to her, stroking her hair, holding her if she wanted to be held, washing and anointing her wounds, but it was two full days before the ill woman even recognized Summer as her sister. And then she lay listlessly beneath a blanket, docile and quiet except for frequent trembling fits of terror. She started at the slightest sound, and awoke with nightmares.

  All the Comanches terrified her, even gentle, round-faced Short Dress, whose native language, Spanish, Amelia understood fairly well. She couldn’t stand the sight of any male at all, even her brother-in-law, who was half-white and had rescued her from a life of degradation and terror. When Lance entered the tepee merely to speak to Summer, Amelia cringed and started whimpering, burying her face against her sister’s shoulder.

  Summer held her soothingly while she wept silently inside. “Melly, it’s only Lance. You’ve known him most of your life. He would never hurt you.”

  “He…he’s one of them.”

  Summer glanced at him apologetically. Lance’s face had gone stiff with the expressionless mask she was coming to recognize as his defensive shield. “No, Melly. He’s the man who rescued you.”

  Shaking now, Amelia shook her head violently. “He touched me, he put his filthy hands on me.”

  “Only to dress your wounds. You needed his help, Melly.”

  Amelia started crying then, piteously, with short, wrenching sobs. Summer looked helplessly at Lance, who turned on his heel without a word and left the lodge. She wanted to go after him, to ask his forgiveness, but just then her sister needed her more.

  After that, Amelia cried often. She wouldn’t speak of her ordeal yet, but frequently she would let loose a flood of what Summer hoped would be healing tears.

  Short Dress was not as sympathetic to the white woman’s fear. Once she shook her head contemptuously and muttered, “She should show more courage.”

  Her head snapping up, Summer almost retorted that Short Dress would not be so heartless if she’d endured what Amelia had—until she remembered that the Mexican woman had doubtless suffered such horrors when she was taken captive. She bit back the remark and settled for a milder defense, saying only that tears would help Amelia recover.

  “You should take her home,” Short Dress observed pragmatically. “She should be among her own people. And for your husband’s sake as well, it is good if you leave this camp.”

  Summer eyed her in puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

  “The People understand why Sharp Lance killed Hanging from the Belt, but they do not like it. It is not good that he killed one of us over a white captive. It would be better if he left.”

  Summer’s frown turned from one of puzzlement to dismay. She had thought the Comanches pleased when he won the fight, but she could see why she might have been mistaken. They were proud of Lance’s skills and courage, but resented his motivation for usin
g them, for siding with the whites against them. Had Lance burned his bridges with his own people to help her? If so, then she owed him an even greater debt of gratitude.

  The Mexican woman started to leave, but Summer remembered a remark Lance had made the other day and stopped her for a moment. “Short Dress? Lance said something in Comanche to me recently. It sounded like…ka-ma-kune. Do you know what it means?”

  The Mexican woman suddenly beamed. “Kamakuna. It means ‘beloved’ in our language. It is a term of honor and affection.”

  She left Summer with a profusion of distressing thoughts to dwell over.

  Beloved. Had Lance truly called her that? Did he really love her? More complex a question, what did she feel for him in return? Could she love a man she didn’t understand, a man she had once been half-afraid of?

  She didn’t fear him anymore, that much was certain. And much of her anger toward him had softened. Her resentment at being forced into marriage had vanished the instant he had brought her dazed, pale sister into the camp. Her gratitude toward him was overwhelming, blocking out any of the more negative feelings she had once cherished toward him.

  And she was attracted physically to him; that was also entirely too true. His touch made her tremble, his kisses made her burn. She went wild in his arms when he made love to her, acting like an unprincipled wanton, blazing with a passion she had never dreamed herself capable of.

  But love? She didn’t think so. And it would take a good deal of objective private reflection to sort through the tangled bittersweet, complicated emotions she really felt for Lance.

  One thing more was certain, however. She was ashamed of her sister’s reaction toward him.

  The next morning when Lance entered the tepee, Amelia screamed and started crying. “Go away, get away from me! Leave me be! Summer, make him leave!”

  Lance froze and, with a grim glance at Summer, backed abruptly out the entrance.

  Mortified that he should be treated so badly after all that he had done for them, Summer jumped up and followed him outside. She caught up to him as he was preparing to mount his horse.

  “Lance, I’m sorry! Amelia doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw as he stared into the distance. “I know. But I could take it better if she hadn’t always treated me like I’ve no right to come near her. I wasn’t going to attack her.”

  “Of course not. But she’s terrified of men, Lance. Especially Comanche men. Please, don’t be angry at her. She was never like this before. You know what she’s been through. She doesn’t realize yet what you did for her. She’ll come around.” When he remained silent, Summer placed an imploring hand on his arm. “I don’t want your feelings to be hurt.”

  “A half-breed isn’t supposed to have feelings,” he said harshly, the pent-up anger of years goading him.

  “Lance, please…”

  The pleading look in her emerald eyes whittled the edge off his anger, and his reply wasn’t as gruff as he’d intended. “I came to tell you I’m going hunting with Fights Bear, and I may be away all night. It may be the last time I have with him for a while.”

  “Yes, well…” She smiled at him tentatively. “I hope you enjoy your time with your brother.”

  His gaze arrested at her sweet expression, and for a minute Lance forgot what he’d intended to say. Her damned sister could scream at him all she liked as long as Summer looked at him that way, offering that soft, tender smile that made him feel as if he were the only man in the world. It was a female ploy she had developed with practice, of course, but still he couldn’t help falling for it.

  “Will you be okay here?” he asked finally.

  “Yes, certainly. Don’t worry about me.”

  When Summer smiled again to reassure him, he felt his heart trip inside like a newborn, stumbling colt. Without volition, he reached up and stroked the pale curve of her cheekbone. The circles still remained beneath her eyes, dusky smudges of weariness and strain, but her beautiful face looked less haunted than it had anytime during the past month.

  He didn’t kiss her. If he had, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop. Instead Lance flashed her a faint smile in return and swung up on his horse.

  He could feel her watching him as he rode away, and his pulse rate quickened to a gallop. His heart felt absurdly light, soaring like a hawk over the mountains, even though his loins burned with the sweet ache of need. She had cared about his feelings. Summer had defended her sister’s actions, not only for Amelia’s sake, but because she hadn’t wanted him to feel hurt.

  Lance closed his eyes, remembering that tender, pleading smile Summer had given him. She was concerned for him, he would swear it. Was it possible she felt something more for him than gratitude?

  He knew better than to let himself get his hopes up, but he couldn’t help it. Maybe Summer might really be coming to care for him a little bit, after all.

  Two days later they left for Texas, escorted by several of the band’s warriors. Fights Bear sent them as protection, and to collect the thirty horses Lance still owed his brother—twenty for assisting in Amelia’s rescue, ten for not sleeping with Summer. The Comanches would accompany them to the edge of Indian Territory, as far as the Red River, and then wait at Deek’s Trading Post for Lance to return with the horses.

  Summer said farewell to Lance’s family with a genuine sense of regret. She had grown especially fond of Short Dress, who had been a tower of strength during the recent weeks of fear and uncertainty. And she would always feel a profound gratitude toward Fights Bear for the tremendous effort he’d made to save her sister.

  The journey south was far more difficult than the one north had been, because of Amelia. They rode in easy stages with frequent rests, and even then she collapsed in exhaustion at the end of each day. She couldn’t stand the company, either. The Comanches mainly kept out of sight, but she started crying whenever one of them came near to speak to Lance.

  She would only ride double with her sister. After her experience, she couldn’t bear being touched by a man. The first day when Lance tried to help Amelia down from her horse, she began screaming, “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!”

  “Melly!” Summer exclaimed, trying awkwardly to turn in the saddle and put her arms around her quaking sister. “He was only trying to help.”

  “I don’t want his help! I can’t stand him—”

  “Melly, listen to me,” Summer replied more harshly than she should have, given her sister’s shattered nerves. “Lance risked his life for you. He killed a man for you.”

  Amelia burst into tears.

  Immediately contrite, Summer gave in. “I’m sorry, Melly,” she murmured soothingly, gently rubbing her back. “Don’t cry, please.”

  “I can’t stand him to touch me.”

  “He won’t touch you, I promise. Now, come, you have to lie down. You need to rest.”

  She helped Amelia slide down from the horse, and with an impotent glance at Lance, dismounted herself. He didn’t offer to assist her. Instead he stood watching her with hooded eyes. When she handed him the reins, he took the horses down to the creek to water them.

  Summer put an arm around Amelia and led her out of the October sun, beneath the shade of a cottonwood tree. When she had settled her sister on a blanket and given her some water, though, Summer followed Lance.

  He was immediately aware of her, she could tell by the subtle tightening of his body. He still wore his Indian garb, and his bare back looked darkly bronzed in the morning sunlight, except for the strip of sinew holding the bandage in place against his wounded ribs.

  “I’m sorry about Amelia, Lance. You don’t deserve to be treated that way.”

  He shrugged without looking at her. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Doubtless he was used to it, Summer thought sorrowfully. This was how he’d been treated all his life, with rejection and scorn and fear. “It isn’t fair,” she murmured rather helplessly.

  His short laugh was m
ore of a grunt. “Life isn’t, most of the time.”

  “I just want you to know…I appreciate everything you’ve done for me…your patience, especially.”

  He wondered if she meant his patience about their marital relations. As hard as it had been, he’d left her alone the past week. Even though Summer was his wife, he hadn’t forced her to share his bed or accept his lovemaking, allowing her instead to spend all her time caring for her injured sister. “Sure,” he said finally.

  He thought she would go, but her next remark surprised him. “When you’re finished here, I would like to look at your wounds.”

  Lance turned his head to eye her skeptically over his shoulder. “Why?”

  “To make sure they’re healing properly.”

  “They are.”

  “I want to see for myself.”

  His eyes narrowed uncertainly. “I can dress them myself.”

  “I know. But you’ve done so much for me, I want to do something for you for a change.”

  “I don’t want you fussing over me,” he replied with typical male offended dignity.

  She gave him a feminine smile that was almost coquettish—the familiar Summer that he’d thought vanished after the hell she’d been through the past month. “Sometimes even the strongest man needs fussing over. And I want to take care of you.”

  With that wifely statement, Summer turned and walked away, leaving Lance to stare after her.

  He staked out the horses, letting them graze on the tall buffalo grass, while his gaze strayed to where Summer sat beside her sister. She had her back to the tree trunk, her knees drawn up, her face raised to the sky. Her eyes were closed, though, her expression relaxed and peaceful.

  A quiet ache of longing filled him at the sight, so powerful, it made his chest hurt. Did she really want to take care of him? To shield him from the hurt her sister had dealt him? Only his ma had ever cared enough about him to protect him like that. Summer seemed willing to try, even if it was only to repay a debt of gratitude. But…would her generosity last once they got back to civilization?