Apache-Colton Series

by Janis Reams Hudson

  “Am I hurting you, Angel?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she gasped.

  He started to withdraw. “It does matter.”

  “No!” she cried. She grabbed his wrist with both hands and clenched her eyes shut. “Don’t stop! Please!”

  Matt relented and tried to be as gentle as he could while still giving her the pleasure she craved. But he knew how sore she must be. His flesh, too, was raw.

  Again she cried out her release, and again, it was only temporary. Matt swore beneath his breath. Chee had given her too much of that goddamn drug.

  “God,” she moaned. “It won’t stop. Why won’t it stop?”

  “It will, Angel, soon, I promise.” He slipped away from her and crawled to his saddlebags. He didn’t have the strength to stand.

  “Matt?”

  “I’m right here, Angel.”

  “Oh, God, Matt,” she sobbed. “Don’t leave me like this. You can’t leave me like this!”

  “It’s all right, Angel, I’m coming.” He found a clean rag and wet it from the water jug, then returned to her side. “This is going to be cold, but it should help the soreness.”

  Angela was long past blushing. She was so ashamed of her actions she just wanted to die. When the cold wet cloth touched her heated flesh, she sucked in her breath sharply. He pressed the cloth firmly against her. Her eyes flew open wide and her climax came almost immediately.

  Matt rained tender kisses across her face, ending at her lips. “Better?” he whispered.

  Angela turned her head away and bit back a sob of mortification.

  He forced her face around. “Look at me,” he ordered. “Whatever has happened, whatever has been said or done, by either of us, is nothing to be ashamed of, Angela. It wasn’t you, and it wasn’t me. It was the drug. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. It was only the drug that made us act this way.”

  Angela lowered her eyes, unable to hold his steady gaze. No matter what he said, she was still ashamed of the way she’d behaved.

  But it was over now. That burning need no longer consumed her. As Matt held her in his arms, she fell into exhausted sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Angela drifted awake slowly, aware of a tremendous heat on her legs. She opened her eyes and glanced down. It was the sun, shining through the smoke hole. But why were there so many legs? She was only supposed to have two, wasn’t she? So where had those other two come from? And why were they so hairy?

  She tilted her head back and found herself trapped by a pair of sleepy brown eyes that took her breath away.

  “Good morning,” Matt whispered hoarsely.

  He ran a hand down her bare back. She shivered. Memory swamped over her. Oh, God! she thought. Fiery heat swept from the tips of her breasts to the roots of her hair as scene after scene of last night played across her mind. Shame lent her energy, and she thrust herself away from Matt and huddled on the edge of the bearskin in misery. She groaned as a thousand tiny needles of pain shot through her abused muscles.

  “Angel?” Matt sat up behind her.

  “Don’t call me that!” she cried, tears clogging her throat.

  “Why not?” he asked quietly.

  She couldn’t answer. She was remembering the things they’d done to each other, whispered to each other, throughout the long, dark night. My God, she’d even begged him! More than once!

  If a girl could will herself to disappear or die, she would have done it right then and there. She could never face him again. Never.

  “Angela, look at me.” He tugged lightly on her shoulder, but she wouldn’t turn. “Angela.”

  His fingers burned like a brand on her bare skin. She shook her head and buried her face in her hands.

  “Look at me.”

  “I c-can’t.”

  “Yes you can. Just turn around and look at me.”

  “I d-don’t think I c-can ever look at you a-again. Oh, God, Matt, I’m s-so ash-ashamed. Wh-what must you think of me? I-I’ve never done anything like…that…before in my life!”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Matt cupped both hands over her shoulders and buried his face in her glorious hair where the sun beat down and warmed it. “I’m not usually like that myself,” he admitted, remembering the lessons a few years ago taught to him by the widow, several years older than himself, right here in this compound. She’d taught him to be a kind and considerate lover. Last night he’d been anything but that.

  “It was the drug, Angela. It made us both do things we wouldn’t normally do. I’ll admit I wanted you last night, from the minute I saw you walking toward me with your hair shining all around you like some magical cloud. God, you were beautiful. You are beautiful. But I wanted you honestly. I wanted you to come to me willingly, even though I knew you wouldn’t. But, Angela, I swear, I had no idea what Chee was planning. I would never have gone along with it.”

  “Why did he do it? I thought he was my friend, your friend. Why would he do such a thing?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think he’s decided we should stay together. He knew what we were planning. I guess it was his way of making sure we didn’t get that annulment. And we won’t be getting one now.”

  “What?” She looked at him then, a stunned expression on her face.

  He gazed steadily into wide, green eyes. “You heard me. I even remember saying it last night. There’ll be no annulment, Angela.”

  “But…you said…we agreed…”

  “Things have changed. You’re my wife now, in every sense of the word, even though it didn’t happen quite the way either of us would have planned it.”

  “But you promised!”

  “I know what I promised, but that was before last night. Is it really such a terrible idea, being my wife?”

  Angela turned her back to him again. What could she say? She’d never had any serious thought of marriage, only those vague dreams a young girl has about a handsome man coming along, rich, well-dressed, from a good family, to sweep her off her feet. Now here she was, apparently firmly bound to a stranger who spent his time with Apaches and went by the name of Bear Killer. Her mind shied at the thought. She studied the jagged circle of sunlight slowly creeping up the grass wall before her.

  “Come on,” Matt said, startling her. “I know a small pool up in the rocks where no one ever goes. Let’s take a swim and cool off. It’s hot in here.”

  She heaved a troubled sigh, and he asked, “What’s wrong?”

  What’s wrong? What isn’t wrong? she wondered, a sense of panic threatening to overwhelm her. Her mind was filled with so many bewildering thoughts, each fighting for supremacy, each demanding an explanation from her apparently nonfunctioning brain, all she could think of to say was, “I can’t swim.”

  “That’s all right,” Matt said, his nonchalance making her want to scream. “It’s not really deep enough to swim there anyway. But you could have a bath if you wanted.” He reached into his saddlebag and tossed something down in front of her.

  Soap.

  It seemed like years since she’d seen soap, but in reality it had only been just over a week. The idea of being able to scrub away the sweat and smell of the past night lifted her spirits a tiny bit, but not enough for her to look Matt in the eye. She reached for the coveted bar, allowing her hair to fall forward and form a curtain around her face. “Thank you,” she whispered past the lump of mortification in her throat.

  Matt came and stood in front of her, and she refused to raise her eyes above his feet. But even looking at his feet was difficult, they were so big and…and masculine. He held out his hand to her. After a long, silent moment, she placed her palm in his and tried to rise. She gritted her teeth against the protesting muscles in her legs and back, and finally stood, still refusing to look at him.

  He left her there and tied his breech cloth around his hips. Angela noticed the buckskins he’d worn last night lying in a heap beside the bed, then glanced back at the strip of bare thigh and hip where the front
and back flaps of his skimpy attire didn’t meet. “Why do you dress like that?”

  “You mean like an Apache instead of a white man?”

  Angela shrugged, then nodded.

  “Because,” he said, “when I’m here, I’m one of them. In this compound I’m not Matt Colton, I’m Bear Killer. Besides,” he added with a quirk of his lips, “I feel conspicuous being the only man in camp with pants on.”

  To hide a sudden grin, Angela turned sideways and took a step. She gasped and bit her lower lip as her muscles screamed in protest.

  “Angela? Are you all right?”

  She took another painful step, then suddenly found herself swept up in Matt’s arms. He ignored her cry of surprise and lowered her to the bearskin again. “Stay there,” he ordered gruffly.

  He pulled on a pair of moccasins. “Where are your clothes?”

  Angela pulled a blanket up to cover her nakedness, then looked around the wickiup. “I don’t know. I think Nod-ah-Sti had them last.”

  When Matt swung toward the door, Angela gasped at the sight of the long red welts across his back. He was covered with the marks she’d given him during the night. “Where are you going?”

  “To find you some clothes,” he tossed back over his shoulder.

  “Matt, wait!”

  “What is it?” Matt was impatient now. He was in a hurry to get to Huera. She was the only one he could ask about what to do for Angela. He’d used Angela shamelessly all night, and now she was so sore she could barely walk. Maybe Huera knew of something to ease the soreness.

  “Before you go, could you, I mean, would you…please put on a shirt?” she asked in a shaky voice.

  Matt swung around to face her, a sick feeling in his gut. “Christ,” he swore in disgust. He stood with his legs apart, hands on hips, and glared at her. He’d thought she was different. She’d never stared at the scar on his face like other white girls. He cursed himself for a fool. He should have remembered.

  Men, even strangers, seemed not to notice the scar on his face at all. But girls, they were different. He’d always hated to be talking to a girl and have her eyes keep straying to his cheek, whether in fascination or revulsion. They either loved the scar or hated it. Angela was the first girl he’d ever met who’d just accepted his looks without comment.

  But the scar on his face was nothing. Even the three curving, parallel marks on his chest weren’t so bad. His back, however, was another matter. Even grown men had been known to quail at the mass of scars on his back.

  His family was used the sight. So was the tribe. Angela was not.

  He should have remembered.

  The self-consciousness he thought he’d conquered years ago reared its head, then anger took its place. He would not apologize or make excuses for the way his skin looked, damn it.

  She’d seen him around camp the last few days without his shirt, and she’d said nothing. She hadn’t said a word last night when he’d undressed. Now she wanted him to wear a goddamn shirt. “Everyone here is used to my scars. You’ll just have to get used to them too.”

  Angela’s eyes lowered to his chest and traced the three parallel scars running from his shoulder to the opposite hip. She’d noticed them before, and knew there were more on his back, but she’d seen so many men with scars since she was a child during the war that she’d thought nothing of them. “Matt, I—”

  “Like I said—get used to them.”

  “Matt—”

  But he’d already stormed out of the wickiup. Now everyone he passed would see those scratches and know exactly what they’d been doing. She’d never be able to face anyone again. Huddling there under her blanket, she wished she could just disappear. Maybe the ground would open up and simply swallow her.

  She lay there listening to life going on all around her, wishing hers would end. Children laughed; a woman scolded; dogs barked; hoofbeats pounded across the camp; a hand slapped against bare skin; a man spoke a few words then roared with laughter. A moment later the hide over the door fluttered, and Matt entered. She lowered her eyes quickly to hide the gathering tears.

  Matt’s smile died. He laid her blue gingham dress down and pulled on a shirt. Cautiously, as if she were a rabbit he might frighten with a sudden movement, he knelt beside her and rested an elbow on his upraised knee. “Tell me why you wanted me to wear a shirt.”

  Angela picked at a ball of lint on the blanket and refused to look at him. “Since you went without one, it really doesn’t matter now. The whole camp probably saw you.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You know why.”

  “It wasn’t the scars, was it.”

  “You know it wasn’t.”

  “Angela, I’m sorry I yelled at you like that.” He caressed one fiery red cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “I guess I’m just a little sensitive. I’m sorry. Come on,” he said. “I promised you a bath.”

  Before she could protest, he placed her clothes, shoes, and soap in her arms and wrapped her in the blanket. He picked her up and carried her outside, then ducked behind the wickiup and slipped into the woods.

  A half hour later, Angela still in his arms, he stood at the edge of a small pool that was fed by a tiny waterfall trickling down between two boulders. The place was entirely surrounded by huge rocks and thick brush.

  In minutes Matt had removed his clothes and her blanket and carried her into the warm water, the bar of soap resting on her stomach. He sat her down in a shallow, sandy spot and proceeded to bathe her. He ignored all her protests, but he knew how embarrassed she was when he washed the dried blood from her inner thighs.

  Angela was more than embarrassed, she was mortified. She tried to appreciate his tender concern, but the gentle touch of his soap-slicked fingers sliding across her inner thighs (and more!) brought sharp images to mind of herself as she had writhed and moaned beneath him last night. Against her will, she closed her eyes and remembered the intense pleasure of his deep thrusts.

  Her lips parted and her breath came in little gasps, and Matt knew what he was doing to her. He cursed his own body for it’s refusal to cooperate with his desire, but she was too sore for that anyway. However, there were other ways.

  He moved carefully, afraid of breaking the spell that held her. He lowered her hips into the water until the lather floated away. Her eyes were still closed, her mouth open. He maneuvered her slowly, gently, until her head lay in the sand at the water’s edge. Her shoulders and hips rested in a mere inch of warm water. Her knees were at the edge of a shallow, two-foot drop-off, and her feet drifted down to rest on the sandy bottom. He knelt there, between her feet.

  The silky feel of his soapy hands as he washed her feet and legs only added to the fire building in Angela’s veins. She was so ashamed of her reaction to his touch that she didn’t dare open her eyes. But if she was so ashamed, why did she feel such pleasure?

  She stopped thinking altogether when he began washing her stomach. His strong fingers kneaded her waist, then slid up her sides and down her arms. He touched her everywhere, except her tender breasts, which begged for his touch.

  When his lips touched her thigh she jerked. Then she lay still again, afraid to encourage him, more afraid to discourage him. His fingers drew slick, soapy circles around her breasts, smaller and smaller circles, until he reached her already hardened nipples. She flattened her palms against the wet sand and arched against his teasing fingers.

  She cried out, a mixture of protest and pleasure, when his tongue flicked between her legs. Her head snapped up, her eyes flew open, and she saw him there, between her thighs. His hot brown eyes devoured her.

  “No!” It was indecent! It was broad daylight! They were out in the open! In the sunshine! And he had his mouth on her, there!

  But, dear God, what he was doing to her with that mouth! Her protest died a quick death as he kissed and licked, sucked and nibbled. His soapy hands trailed down from her breasts to her hips and he lifted her to meet his lips and tongue.

 
Angela didn’t care anymore about anything. She didn’t care that this was the most indecent thing she could imagine. She didn’t care that she’d never be able to face him after letting him do this to her. She didn’t care if the entire rest of the world disappeared. Only please, God, don’t let him stop!

  The pleasure and the pressure built to such heights, she didn’t think she could bear it. Tears seeped out from beneath her tightly closed eyelids. She clutched at the wet sand beneath her hands as if it could steady her spinning world. But she didn’t want her world to steady. She wanted it to spin and spin and spin, until it spun so fast she flew right off, out into the sky.

  And that’s exactly what happened.

  She felt herself breaking free of the earth, and her cry of release was nearly a scream. Her climax was so powerful that she sobbed aloud as the spasms shook her.

  Matt quickly rinsed the soap from her before it dried, then pulled her into his arms and held her in his lap. He cradled her there for a long time, until she stopped crying. Then he gently kissed the tears from her wet cheeks. Without saying anything, he sat her down in the water and began to wash her hair.

  Angela was drained. Her limbs drifted in the water wherever Matt directed them. Even her scalp relaxed under his massaging fingers; her head rolled on her limp neck. She made no protest when he carried her from the water and dried her with a rough blanket. She stared at the water trickling down from the rocks and let Matt comb the tangles from her hair.

  The last person to do that for her had been her mother. Matt was much more gentle.

  She just sat there, staring at the ripples in the water, then finally asked, “Why did you do that?”

  “Do what?” Matt sat down beside her and smoothed loose tendrils of pale hair from her face.

  She blushed and kept her eyes lowered. “You know.”

  “Because I wanted to, and you wanted me to.”

  She felt his gaze on her face as he ran his fingers through her hair. A denial sprang to her lips, but she swallowed it when he spoke again.