The Savage

by Nicole Jordan

  Summer shook her head. “If you think I intend to face all those people alone, you’re greatly mistaken. Reed was right about sticking together. We go as a family or not at all.”

  “Then we don’t go.”

  “You’re not afraid, are you?”

  A spark of fury kindled in his eyes, but he didn’t rise to the bait.

  She tried a different tact. “Lance, it won’t be so bad, truly; you’ll see.”

  “For you, maybe. You’re one of them.” His mouth curled at the corner. “But your neighbors sure as hell wouldn’t agree with you. And I wouldn’t want to spoil their fancy party.”

  “Stop that, Lance Calder!” Summer stamped her foot in irritation. “You’re as good as any man in this state!”

  His narrowed gaze fixed on her. “What does that have to say to anything? Red skin has a way of blinding people. To the upstanding citizens around here, I’ll never be more than a breed.”

  “You could make them accept you. Prove to them you belong.”

  Not replying, he picked up a piece of burlap and began giving the horses a light rubdown.

  Summer took a deep breath, prepared to toughen her arguments. “You married me to help you gain respectability. Well, this is your chance.”

  That brought absolutely no response.

  She tried again. “If you turn your back on all our neighbors, they’ll have no reason to welcome you. It will get awfully lonesome year after year, with no one to talk to, to share joys and sorrows with.”

  “I don’t need them or their favors,” he ground out, his voice rough with emotion.

  “So you mean to remain an outcast all your life?”

  “Maybe not, but I’ll be damned if I’ll grovel!”

  His dark eyes glowered at her, fierce and smoldering, but Summer stood her ground. “Did I hear anyone ask you to grovel?” Before he could reply, she tossed her head. “All right, do as you like. But…” Her expression softened, as did her voice. “Do you really think it’s fair to make me an outcast along with you?”

  This time she didn’t give him a chance to respond, but turned and left the barn, leaving Lance to stare after her.

  It was a low blow, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut. His beautiful, manipulative temptress of a wife didn’t need feminine wiles as long as she could play on his guilt. All Summer had to do was remind him of the difficult position he’d put her in by marrying her, and he felt like pond scum.

  She was wrong about why he’d married her, though. He’d done it, not just because he wanted respectability, but because he loved her, because he’d seen a desperate chance to grab his dream and he’d taken it.

  She was right, though, about his stiff-necked pride. He was too proud to let himself in for the reception he’d get if he went to her damned barbecue. Too proud to let Summer know how he felt about her. To let her see how much he wanted her—Hell, who was he kidding? The line had long ago vanished between what he wanted and what he needed. He needed her like the air he breathed.

  She was right about him being afraid, too, but his fear wasn’t really for him. He was afraid of how Summer would be received by their neighbors. He didn’t want her to have to face what his mother had endured. At least here on the ranch she was surrounded by her family and hired help who loved her. He couldn’t keep her safe forever, yet he owed it to Summer to make the effort. To make something of their marriage.

  She sure had tried. She had done her best to hold up her end of the bargain. She’d proved as stubborn as she accused him of being, fighting to hold her family and ranch together, challenging him to take his rightful place as her husband and part owner of Sky Valley.

  She’d denied him nothing, not even in bed. Sex with her had only grown in intensity and passion and boldness—and God help him, it had only made his need for her worse. His hunger for her body had only increased. He was aroused by nothing more than the straight, slender line of her back, or a careless smile sent his way.

  And yet he wanted more than just her body. He wanted all of her. He wanted to know how she felt, what she thought, what she cared about. He wanted to learn about her hopes, her dreams.

  And God knew he wanted to see her happy. She was far too serious since war and death had ripped her life apart. He wanted her back, the beautiful, vital girl he had fallen for so many years ago. He wanted to see her laughing and teasing and even flirting, just like the old Summer. A party would make her happy.

  He had done little to make it easy for her up till now. But it wasn’t too late. He could meet her halfway. He could try to give her reason to be, if not happy, then at least content with their marriage. Hell, he’d already planned to do just that. Just yesterday he’d vowed he would make an effort to change. He would do his damnedest to control his vicious temper, at least. And he would try to woo Summer with tenderness, if he could.

  He knew she didn’t love him—not yet, anyway. But maybe, one day, she might come to look upon their marriage as something other than an obligation she regretted.

  An honorable man would have given her up before putting her through the hell she would face as his wife. But he couldn’t make himself do it. He might as well cut out his heart while he was at it. Summer was the one thing in his life that was warm and real and made life worth living. When he held her in his arms, he could almost believe his dreams were in reach. A place of his own where he could do work he loved best. A wife who would stand by him. Acceptance by the white community. But more important than any of that, Summer. His Summer.

  This morning, when he’d taken her to see the land where he hoped to build their house, he’d felt so close to achieving everything he wanted. For a few hours he had forgotten all the things that threatened him. His Comanche blood. Their neighbors. Her sister.

  He could see the hurt in Summer’s eyes whenever she thought of her sister. It was because of him that Amelia had turned against her. He only hoped to God his presence didn’t cause a permanent break between them.

  And if it did? Would Summer come to hate him for it?

  He couldn’t make himself think that far ahead.

  Still, he had to decide how to answer her. What she wanted from him was simple enough. Take her to a barbecue. Endure the disdainful looks and maybe the slurs that were sure to greet him. Keep a tight rein on his temper, no matter what the provocation.

  Simple enough.

  Goddammit, he couldn’t deny her this one thing.

  With a curse at her blasted tactics, Lance turned the horses out in the corral and stalked over to their cabin. He found Summer in the bedroom, getting ready for Sunday dinner, pinning up her hair.

  When she looked up, he spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll go to your damned party,” he said grudgingly.

  He was rewarded with the response he had longed to see. Summer smiled—a smile so joyful, so radiant, it seemed the sun had suddenly broken through the clouds.

  His pulse surging, Lance propped a shoulder against the doorframe, suddenly worried that his weakened knees might not support him.

  Amelia didn’t come down to dinner, her empty place a silent reminder of her revulsion for Lance. And yet the atmosphere around the elegant dining table was less strained than anyone expected. Summer provided a steady supply of cheerful conversation, Reed played the convivial host, and Lance dusted off his best manners and made a determined effort to respond in kind.

  He answered guardedly when Reed questioned him about the house he meant to build, and was more than mildly surprised when the other man offered to work on the plans.

  “I studied a little architecture before the war,” Reed admitted somewhat sheepishly. “A hobby I indulged in.”

  “It was more than a hobby,” Summer interjected, her tone warm with praise. “You should have seen his drawings, Lance. They were beautiful.”

  “Well, adequate perhaps,” her brother countered modestly. “But it was something I loved. As the youngest son, I figured Ty and Jami could take over the ranch, but Pa was outraged th
at I might want to do something other than raise horses. Pa and I didn’t agree on a lot, actually.”

  He looked directly at Lance, who understood the implied message: John Weston’s deep prejudice was not his son’s.

  “If you know the kind of house you want, I could help with the design,” Reed offered.

  “I’d like that,” Lance replied truthfully. “I know as much about building houses as a cotton planter knows about raising stock.”

  He found himself relaxing and letting down his guard, even when they discussed the price of such a venture. When Reed tactfully probed about how much he was willing to spend, Lance surprised himself by answering honestly.

  “I don’t have to worry much about the cost, not unless I try to pave the floor with gold. I made a lot of money selling mustangs over the years, and saved most of it.” He glanced at Summer. “I never had anybody else to spend it on before.”

  “Do you mean to tell me I married a wealthy man?” she demanded, her green eyes dancing. “Shame on you, Lance, for keeping such a secret from me. I suppose you thought a princess like me would drive you into bankruptcy with her extravagant habits.”

  That she was teasing him was clear, but her tender smile puzzled him—until he figured out that she was simply glad he had finally shared something personal about himself. He had never made such an admission before, not even to the woman who was now his wife. He’d deliberately kept it from her, in fact. But Summer deserved to know he could support a wife, even if she had expensive habits.

  Reed was watching them with a frown. “You told me just last week that you couldn’t give her the luxuries she was accustomed to.”

  His mouth curved in a rueful grin. “Well, maybe I shaded the truth a bit.”

  “Which occurs frequently,” Summer said in an arch tone. “Lance has the annoying practice of making himself seem less than he is. He doesn’t want to convince anyone to think well of him, you see. What he really meant, though, is that he wants to be accepted for who he is, however rich or poor.”

  Black eyes locked with green in understanding, Lance’s self-conscious and amazingly meek, Summer’s smug and amused, as if she was pleased to have figured him out and determined to prevent him from using such tactics. It was an intimate moment, though, as comfortable as a worn moccasin, and one that satisfyingly lasted well into the evening.

  Lance was also surprised a while later to find himself offering to fit a saddle for Reed to use comfortably with only one leg.

  “I think you could ride well enough if you had a brace for your missing limb and a horse trained to respond to just one spur.”

  “Oh, I could probably ride,” Reed responded with a bitterness he couldn’t hide. “If I could get on. Mounting is what’s nigh impossible.”

  “It’ll be a problem,” Lance agreed thoughtfully, “but we can figure out something.”

  They dined on fried chicken and sweet potatoes and gooseberry tarts, and then had coffee and brandy in the front parlor. It had grown dark by the time Summer and Lance said goodnight and strolled silently the two hundred yards or so to their own cabin. Pale moonlight cast a gentle glow over the ranch buildings; a horse whickered in the corral as they passed.

  Still acting the gentleman, Lance guided her through their front door and shut it softly behind them. By feel, Summer lit the lamp that sat just inside and then turned to look at him.

  A long, quiet, sensually charged spell filled the silence.

  Lance was lounging casually against the door panel, but his black eyes shone with a stark sultriness that was unmistakable.

  “Come here,” he murmured, roughly impatient.

  When she moved into his arms, he bent his head at once, his mouth latching on to hers, his fingers laced behind her nape to hold her captive while his tongue thrust deep in a hungry claiming. This was the taste he’d needed, craved, all evening.

  Summer felt the same craving. Eagerly she rubbed her body against him, feeling her nipples harden and the now familiar quickening between her legs.

  To her surprise, though, Lance broke off the caress. With a questioning look, she led the way to their bedchamber, setting the lamp on the small table that served as a dressing table and writing desk. Removing the black knit shawl from around her shoulders, she folded it and stored it on a self inside the armoire. Lance was already pulling off his clothes and tossing them on the rocking chair that sat in one corner.

  In only a moment he was naked, beautifully naked—wearing only a gauze bandage over his healing ribs that contrasted starkly with his bronzed skin. Summer drew a sharp breath, captivated by the beauty of his dark, sleek animal body illuminated in the lamp’s glow. Just the sight of him made her own body tremble and grow heavy and sultry with wanting.

  He caught her watching him, and his manhood reacted, filling, swelling, engorging, till it stood thick and rigid and ready.

  He didn’t offer to help her undress as a gentleman would. Instead he tossed back the covers of the rope bed and carelessly sat down, his shoulder propped against the headboard, one leg stretched out, the other foot resting on the wooden floor. His swollen shaft rose nearly straight up. Summer found she couldn’t tear her eyes away; she could only remember the exquisite feel of that hard flesh moving inside her, impaling her, filling her, and she wanted to moan.

  When finally she managed to look up, her gaze locked with Lance’s, and time seemed to falter. She was aware of the most potent sense of anticipation she had ever felt.

  “What are you waiting for, princess?” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

  What indeed?

  Her cheeks flushing, she unbuttoned the bodice of her gown with shaking fingers, aware that Lance was deliberately making it harder for her. He lay powerfully lithe on the bed as he watched her, his gaze hot and possessive.

  With awkward haste, she removed her gown and petticoats and hung them in the armoire. Her underclothes followed, but she modestly kept her back to him, until Lance commanded softly, “Turn around. I want to see you.”

  Almost quivering, Summer obeyed. She could feel the slow, hot sweep of his gaze linger over her bare breasts, her belly, the juncture of her thighs.

  “Take down your hair,” Lance commanded.

  Dazedly she raised her arms, her fumbling fingers searching for the pins. Finally free of restraint, the heavy mass fell down her back, and Summer distractedly raked the tangled locks through her fingers. Lance’s heated look made the simple task somehow even more intimate than undressing before him.

  He moved then. She heard the soft creak of the bed ropes as he rose, magnificent and virile, from the mattress. Her breath caught in her throat as he soundlessly crossed the floor to her. His harsh features dark with passion, he stood over her for a moment, his shining blue-black hair sweeping forward across his high cheekbones. To her bewilderment, though, he didn’t kiss her or take her in his arms. Instead, he gently turned her around and pushed her down to sit on the stool before the dressing table.

  She was aware of the cool polished oak surface against her bare buttocks, the radiant heat at her back as Lance moved behind her, the irregular thudding of her heart. In the mirror’s golden reflection, she could see his arms come around her, feel his callused hands glide down her chest to cup the swollen mounds of her breasts.

  The sight was keenly erotic: his hands dark and powerful against her pale jutting breasts, the nipples hard and distended as his thumbs flicked the aching peaks. The feeling was exquisite. Summer arched, shuddering, but his palms closed around her, holding her still.

  The expression on his face was absorbed, focused, as he watched his ministrations, a man intent on giving pleasure, on seeing that his woman was pleased. His hands moved over her skin in a languid rhythm, stroking with delicacy, slowly rubbing her taut nipples between thumb and forefinger. Summer bit back a whimper at the lush heat that was swelling in her, at the delicious flush suffusing her body.

  “I want you,” he said softly, hoarsely.

  S
he wanted him, too. Her woman’s body craved the maleness of him.

  But it seemed that Lance was in no hurry. In a moment, his hands relinquished their pressure, fell away from her breasts, leaving her skin chilled where his fiery hands had been. As if he had all the time in the world, he picked up the silver-backed brush from the table and, in a long, measured stroke, drew the bristles gently through her dark hair. An intimate act, leisurely and sensual. And yet incredibly erotic, too: such a feminine, servile task performed by such a virile, independent man.

  His slow, rhythmic motions were quiet and gentle—and implausibly arousing. The languorous repetition of the brush should have lulled and soothed Summer, and yet it only built the rampant desire pulsing through her. Sensation seared along her nerves: the gentle tug against her scalp, the cool silkiness of her hair against her bare shoulders, the knowledge that Lance’s hard, lean body was so close and yet so far away.

  He seemed immune to her feverish need. He was studying her tresses with half-closed eyes, as if fascinated by the mahogany length. When several crackling strands tangled with his wrist, he loosened them with infinite care, as if handling something precious.

  Watching the way his obsidian eyes softened, Summer could almost believe he was two different men. One a dangerous warrior, defiant, unforgiving; the other a sensitive, sensual lover, eager to be tender.

  Who taught you gentleness? Summer wondered. How, with the brutal life you endured, did you ever, ever, manage to keep your humanity?

  “I love your hair,” he murmured reverently. “I love the way it feels…like satin.”

  “Lance…?” she said breathlessly.

  “Mmmm?”

  “Do you think you could feel it later? After…?”

  He looked up then, met her gaze in the mirror. And smiled.

  Slowly he set the brush on the table. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he turned her on the seat so that she was facing him, one of his iron-muscled legs between her slender ones. His jutting arousal, darkly flushed and swollen with desire, was so close to her face that she could bend just a little and touch it with her lips, take it in her mouth. She wanted to—it shocked her how desperately she wanted to.