by Bobbi Smith
Trista, however, misread his intentions. She was certain that he was so angry that he meant to throw her to the ground to be trampled beneath the horse's hooves. She clung to him for dear life at the thought, and her tenacious hold only succeeded in throwing him off balance. Her arms locked around his neck, Trista fell, and as she tumbled to the ground, she drew him with her. They sprawled awkwardly in the dust, Lance landing heavily atop her.
Realizing the precariousness of their position, Lance reacted instinctively, quickly shielding Trista's prone body with his own to protect her from the thrashing hooves. The danger lasted only an instant, but the shock waves of sensual awareness that came with that moment of peril branded them forever.
Lance lay intimately upon Trista, chest to breast, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. The heat of desire welled up within him at the feel of her soft, unresisting body beneath his, and he felt his loins tighten in expectation. Angrily Lance recognized his growing desire for her. When she'd fallen asleep in his arms the night before, he had been tempted to take her then, but had decided against it. There had been little time, and rest had been more important. Yet rest had not come as he had lain awake all night obsessed with the thought of burying himself deeply within her and claiming her—Michael's woman—as his own.
Vaguely he became aware that the pinto had quieted, but it didn't seem to matter anymore as he levered himself up on his elbows to stare down at Trista. Her braided hair had come loose and was spread out in a golden tangle about her in the dust. Streaks of dirt marred the loveliness of her pale features, and the rip in her blouse that before had bared just a smooth ivory shoulder and the hint of a breast now had torn further. There, completely exposed to his probing gaze, was the sweetness of one firm breast. His breath seemed to catch in his throat at the sight of that tender orb. Since he'd seen her at the ranchhouse he had wondered at her hidden beauty, and a fire of need consumed him as he imagined what it would be like to caress that delicate pink-crested flesh with his hands and lips.
Lance glanced up to find her blue eyes upon him, their expression troubled as if she sensed his turmoil and worried at it. His desire to touch her, though, pushed him past any conscious caring, and he lowered his head to press a heated kiss to the succulent fullness.
Trista had been watching Lance nervously as he'd risen above her. His blue eyes were glinting strangely with some emotion she was at a loss to define, and when he lowered his head toward her, she stiffened, not quite sure what to expect. The intimate touch of his lips upon her naked skin startled her, and she bucked wildly beneath him, wanting to dislodge him from her. But Lance seemed to take no notice of her movements as he continued to plunder the softness of her breast with his lips and tongue.
Trista had never felt anything like it before. While on one hand she fought to be free of his disturbing touch, still a curling thrill of excitement tightened in her most secret places. A low moan escaped her as he caught the taut peak in his teeth and nipped at it gently. Shudders of unbidden desire ravaged her as he laved the sensitive point with the moist warmth of his tongue before drawing it within his mouth to suckle. The rhythmic draw of his mouth sent her passions spiraling out of control. Never had she felt such ecstasy! Never had she known such bliss!
Her conscience cried out to her—Think of Michael! This Lance is a savage! She tried to picture Michael in her mind, but her body was responding to Lance's masterful touch, striking all logical thought from her.
When he loosened her bonds and freed her hands, she had no desire to fight him; instead she welcomed him. Trista found that she was moving restlessly against him now, seeking rather than evading, and she gloried in the lean hardness of his big male body. He was so different from her, and yet at the moment she was not frightened by that difference. If anything, she was intrigued by it. Of their own volition, her hands began to move over him, caressing his broad shoulders and exploring the rock-hard muscular ridges of his arms.
Lance lifted his head, and his blue eyes glittered in excitement as he gazed down into her passion-flushed face. He bent to claim her moist, parted lips.
The kiss was explosively erotic as Trista found herself caught up in the spell of his sensuality. Her mouth opened to his possession, and though she reacted timidly at first to the bold thrust of his tongue, eventually she met him in that most intimate exchange.
Lance savored the honey-sweet taste of her, and as the kiss continued, he cupped her breast to tease the peak with a knowing touch. Pressing his hips more tightly to the cradle of hers, he let her know of his desire for her. Trista gasped at the sensation and innocently surged upward against him in natural invitation.
In the throes of passion, Lance was trying to ignore the persistent, annoying sound that was treading the edges of his consciousness. Caught up in the excitement of Trista's heated response, it was long moments before the reality of the warning finally penetrated his thoughts. Recognition dawned. He stilled all motion, abruptly ending the kiss, and as slowly as possible he raised his head to glance about them.
"Lance?" Trista, completely at a loss as to why he had stopped kissing her, reached up to him to draw him back down.
"Don't move!" he ordered viciously through gritted teeth.
At his cold, imperious tone, reality returned with a vengeance, and she was filled with shame. She had been reaching out to him, wanting more of his kisses and caresses. Why, Trista realized in horror, she had almost made love to this . . . this Comanche! Angrily, she began to squirm, trying to get away from the now oppressive weight of his body on hers.
Lance realized too late that he'd been stupid to expect that she would obey him. Knowing that there was no point in trying to subdue her, he wasted no time in making his move, for the danger was very real. In one smooth effort, he drew his knife, and then, rising up to his knees, he sent it slicing through the air. His expert accuracy was reaffirmed as the blade sank deeply into the body of the coiled, ready-to-strike rattler, killing it instantly.
Trista had seen Lance go for his knife and had frozen in terror, expecting the worst. When he'd shifted position to throw it, she'd quickly scrambled completely free of him, wondering at his actions. She'd caught sight of the snake then, and a shudder of fear quaked through her. It had been so close, and it could have struck them both. Trista knew little about snakes, but she'd heard talk of rattlers and how big and dangerous they were. Gauging from this one's size, she had no doubt that this was one of them.
Dragging her gaze away from the sight of the bloody carcass, Trista looked to Lance and thought again of what a savage he was. His expression was fierce in concentration, the paint he still wore emphasizing the basic wildness of his nature. His corded muscles were taut beneath the sheen of sweat that glistened on his deeply tanned chest and shoulders. She realized that there was nothing even remotely civilized about him.
The thought of his untamed ways made Trista wonder how she could ever have considered allowing him to touch her. She had never even allowed Michael the liberties that Lance had taken, and she loved Michael! It was with a definite feeling of guilt that she admitted to herself that she had responded physically to Lance's touch. Disgust at her own actions chilled her, and she glanced at him once more, her expression clearly revealing her emotional turmoil.
The tension ebbed from Lance as he stared triumphantly at the unmoving snake. Shaking himself mentally, Lance brought his focus back to Trista, who had escaped his embrace. She was now crouched several feet away from him, clutching the remnants of her blouse over her one exposed breast and watching him warily. His gaze turned stony as he looked from her distrustful expression to the breast she was so desperately trying to cover and then back up again. He understood in frustration that, though his body was still demanding fulfillment, the moment of passion between them had been lost. Any attempt to recapture that blatantly sensual encounter would be useless, and he was definitely in no mood for another fight. He got slowly to his feet.
"Do not think that you can escape me, Tris
ta. I have already told you that you are mine," Lance stated arrogantly.
Determined to put her in her place and keep her there, he picked up the leather thong and moved to tie her hands again. As she tried to keep her breast covered from his view, he mercilessly pulled her hand away. His gaze went coldly over her bared flesh as he held her bound wrists in one of his powerful hands. Trista flushed in embarrassment at his bold appraisal. She lifted her eyes to his but could read no emotion in their icy blue depths. Without another word, Lance rose. Ignoring her completely, he turned his back on her and went off to retrieve the skittish pinto.
Trista found herself both relieved and annoyed at being so summarily dismissed, and she pondered that feeling of irritation as she watched him stalk his mount and recapture it with little difficulty. She knew she should have been completely ecstatic that he hadn't taken her and that her virtue was still intact for Michael. Certainly, considering Lance's strength, it would have been no problem for him to overpower her and take what he wanted. She had been prepared to fight him, and he hadn't given her the satisfaction. Why should it bother her that he'd left her alone?
Feeling quite defeated, she got slowly to her feet and made her way down to the pool's edge. Cupping her hands, she dipped them into the water and drank thirstily of the refreshing liquid. As the cool drink eased her parched throat, Trista gazed out across the night-shadowed waters and drew a measure of serenity from the quiet dusk. She tried to push all memories of what had just happened with Lance from her mind and make Michael the center of her thoughts. Michael would be coming for her soon. Everything would be fine once he'd rescued her. Only the gnawing doubt that hovered in the back of her mind concerning how she would react should Lance approach her again disturbed her inner peace. Though she attempted to deny it, it remained . . . a faint, disturbing threat from which there was no escape.
"We're camping here for the night."
The sound of his voice so close behind her surprised Trista, and she wondered how he could have moved so quietly that she had not heard him coming.
"All right," was her only answer. She refused to face him, expecting him to say more. When no further conversation ensued, she gave up and turned toward him only to find, to her strange disappointment, that he'd already walked away.
Michael's mood was solemn as he sat alone before the crackling campfire. Though they had finally managed to pick up Trista's trail, it had been too late in the day to make any real progress toward finding her. The Indian now had over a full day's lead on them.
Michael was seriously beginning to doubt that he would ever see Trista again. He knew what happened to captive white women, and most of it wasn't pretty. His grip tightened on the tin coffee cup he was holding, and his jaw set in anger. Why Trista? he raged inwardly. His life had been almost perfect, and now all his hopes and dreams had been shattered.
"Michael . . . "
He stiffened as his father's call interrupted his thoughts. "Yeah, Pa?"
"You know we're riding out at first light. Don't you think it's time you turned in?" George was well aware of the direction of his son's thoughts, but he also knew that there was no point in dwelling on the terrible reality of what had happened. All they could do was to keep up the search and pray that they weren't too late when they finally caught up.
Michael didn't respond verbally. He only cast aside the cold dregs of coffee and stood up to make his way to his bedroll. Michael doubted that he would get any sleep that night, but he knew it couldn't hurt to at least attempt to rest. Tensely, thoughts of Trista still haunting him, he stretched out in his bedroll. With all his heart, he hoped she was alive and well somewhere out there in the wilds, staring at the same star-dusted sky he was. As he restlessly turned to his side and closed his eyes against the fading flames of the fire, he willed morning to hurry so he could be up and on his way to find her once again.
Chapter Seven
His arms folded across his massive chest, Lance stood apart from the campsite, staring out across the moonswept countryside. It was late, and yet, even as tired as he was, he hesitated at the thought of bedding down with Trista. Trying to sleep the night before with her resting in his arms had been torturous enough. Tonight, he knew, would be far worse. The powerful explosion of desire that had erupted between them had caught him totally unawares.
Lance found he was cautious of the potency of this attraction he was feeling for Trista. He did not want to harbor any warmer feelings for her. She was his captive, taken in vengeance and hatred. That was all.
Lance turned his gaze toward the place where Trista awaited him. The thought of her wrapped in his blanket, anticipating his return, sent a flash fire of excitement through him. Why should he deny himself? He would have her this night. She was his. He would use her as all Comanche warriors used their captives. There would be no more to it than that. As he headed back, he was almost regretting that she wouldn't be willing, and then grew annoyed with himself for even caring what her feelings were.
The moon passed slowly behind the shadow of a night cloud, and the sudden darkness that covered the land hid much. As Lance approached the campsite, he was confident that Trista would be there. Surprise, then shock, and finally anger gripped him as the moon slipped from behind the cloud and cast its unforgiving brilliance on the scene, revealing clearly that Trista was not there.
Bloodlust filled Lance as he looked around. Never before had a woman dared so much with him! Yet even as his fury raged within him, worry intruded. It struck him as odd that there was nothing missing from the camp. Trista hadn't taken the blanket or any food or water. So unprepared, he knew that she wouldn't be able to survive long, alone and unarmed in the wilds.
Lance was about to begin to search when he noticed for the first time that her boots were lying on the bank of the pond along with what looked to be her riding skirt and blouse. Cautiously he moved nearer, and the sight that greeted him left him stunned to immobility. Trista had not run away. . . . She was there, gloriously unclad, her arms untied, bathing in the pool.
Mesmerized by the sight of her standing at the center of the pond with the moonstruck water swirling gently about her slender hips, Lance remained motionless as he watched her. Trista seemed a goddess of the night—innocent, yet sensual. Caressed by the silvery light, her ivory flesh glowed like the finest porcelain. Though her back was to him as she bathed, Lance found this view of her most enticing. The glorious tumble of her now-unbraided golden hair, the inviting curve of her tiny waist, and the gentle swell of her hips all seemed to beckon to him.
For a moment Lance hesitated. A part of himself that he'd long denied argued that Trista had been right the night before when she'd proclaimed that she could not be owned. Logically, he knew that he had no right to take her, and yet, even as he realized he shouldn't, he couldn't deny himself. His desire to possess her body was as overpowering as his desire for revenge. All other thoughts fled. He would make her his.
Like a man possessed, Lance quickly divested himself of his weapons and breechclout. Without making a sound, he moved out into the pond. Silently, he slipped beneath the water and swam smoothly in her direction.
Trista had tried her best to rest after Lance had stalked away from their campsite some time before, but sleep had proven elusive. As tired as she was, the guilt she felt over her earlier encounter with him and the thought that he was going to return and share the same blanket with her again had left her nerves on edge. After tossing restlessly for what seemed like hours, she had finally given up the effort. It was then that she'd started to think of how wonderful it would feel to scrub away the trail dust and, hopefully, the memory of Lance's arousing touch. Trista had known that Lance might return at any time, so she'd had to hurry. It had been difficult, but using her teeth, she'd managed to untie the thong that bound her wrists. She'd quickly stripped off her clothes and boots then and had waded out into the pond to begin her ablutions. Trista planned to be back, dressed and wrapped in the blanket, before Lance reappear
ed.
Trista lifted cupped hands filled with water and delighted in the sweet caress of the soothing liquid as it spilled down her body. She longed to linger in the small pool but knew time was of the essence. Nervously glancing over her shoulder back toward the campsite, she was greatly relieved to see that Lance had not yet returned. Trista submerged herself one last time and then stood up to make her way back to the bank.
Lance's powerful strokes brought him quickly to her side. Trista felt the unexplained current in the water and knew an instant of soul-chilling fear as she tried to imagine what kind of creature could be in the pool with her. With the run-in with the rattlesnake still fresh in her mind, her imagination ran wild. She tried to hurry, to flee to the bank and safety, but the water slowed her, dragging at her legs and holding her back.
Lance surfaced directly behind her. As she attempted to run, Trista heard something break the surface near her, and she struggled even harder to reach the side. Lance saw how desperate she was to get away and immediately assumed that she had seen him and was running away from him. Angered by her actions, he grabbed her roughly by the arm and hauled her backward.
Trista had no time to react as his hand closed painfully around her upper arm and jerked her backward. As she lost her footing on the slippery bottom of the pool and started to fall, she caught sight of Lance, and what had been terror in her heart was replaced by relief. There was no horrible monster in the water with her, only Lance.
Lance responded instinctively as she lurched unsteadily in the water, and moved quickly to scoop her up into his arms. Turning her in his arms, he brought her against him, and when Trista's pale, wet nakedness made sudden, intimate contact with Lance's hard, sun-bronzed male frame, all time seemed suspended. The moment was tension-filled as their gazes met and locked.
Trista was stunned by the sudden turn of events. Her relief at discovering that it was Lance in the pool with her momentarily sapped her will to fight him. She felt strangely disassociated as she stared up at him in the moon-kissed darkness, studying the hard planes and angles of his paint-streaked face. His underwater swim had erased some of his black and vermillion camouflage, but Trista suddenly longed to see what Lance really looked like beneath his ferocious disguise.
