Texas Splendor

by Bobbi Smith

  "It's going to be all right, you know," Michael wanted to reassure her. "As soon as we're married—"

  "Michael . . . " Trista turned to face him. "I told you how I felt about the way you kept the truth from me."

  Michael smiled tenderly as he took her hand and brought it to his lips. In an erotic, yet innocent gesture, he pressed a kiss to her palm. "I understand why you were upset with me, Trista. I promise you it will never happen again."

  Trista felt the warm gentleness of his kiss on her hand, yet no shiver of desire followed. It puzzled her that she felt such little reaction to his caress. "But can I truly count on the promise?"

  "I give you my word, darling," Michael vowed solemnly, his dark eyes catching and holding hers.

  Trista didn't try to resist as he took her in his arms and drew her close. His mouth sought hers, and she surrendered to his embrace. Trista wanted to feel the excitement she knew was possible from such lovemaking, but to her dismay no thrill of passion possessed her as Michael kissed her. His touch was nice . . . it was tender and caring, but there was no violent eruption of desire deep within her as she'd experienced in Lance's arms.

  Michael was surprised when Trista withdrew from him. This was their first time alone together since the other night in camp, and he had expected a far more inviting response to his advances.

  "Trista . . . is something wrong?" he pressed as he watched her edge away from him to stand by the porch railing. Her gaze was averted from him, and she stared out across the night-shrouded landscape.

  "No, Michael, nothing's wrong. I suppose I'm just tired, that's all. . . ." she hedged, not understanding herself why she felt strangely guilty in his embrace. "I think I'll go on up to bed."

  "I'll walk you up," he offered.

  Though her first instinct was to refuse his offer, she agreed to his company. They noted as they passed through the house that it was quiet; everyone else seemed to have retired already. Trista paused to say good night as she opened her bedroom door. Michael took her action to be an invitation of sorts, so he boldly swept her into another embrace and kissed her soundly. The heated ardency of his kiss should have stirred a fire in her soul, but Trista felt only relief when Michael released her.

  "Good night, Michael," she said quickly. Before he could try to kiss her again, she hurried into the privacy of her room and locked the door behind her.

  Trista remained poised in the darkness until she heard him walk away. Only then did she realize that she'd been anxiously holding her breath. She turned to light the lamp on her dresser, meaning only to undress and go to bed, but suddenly found herself trapped by a pair of steely arms.

  Before she could even shriek her outrage, Lance brought his lips down brutally on hers. He had had enough. Her treatment of Michael when he'd fallen from Fuego had fanned the smoldering fire of his jealousy, but when she'd disappeared out onto the porch with his brother after dinner, he'd become a man possessed. She was his, and she was going to admit it! With angry precision Lance raped her mouth, taking what she would not give him freely, openly. His tongue was bold and arousing as it speared within the sweetness of her mouth, dueling with her own.

  Molten desire flowed through Trista, but she refused to give in to its burning pleasure. Struggling against Lance, she tried desperately to escape his sensual assault. Bound to him by his relentless embrace, she fought to ignore the heat that had blossomed deep within her, but to no avail. As he pressed himself fully against her, Trista became aware of the muscular sleekness of his bared chest and the power of his need thrusting hungrily against her softness. Her resistance dissolved as her excitement became a blazing inferno of desire. Defeated, yet marvelously so, Trista gave in to the glory of his touch.

  As quickly as she surrendered, Lance coldly released her and pushed her away.

  "Is that how you responded to Michael, wife?" Lance asked in a furious tone.

  Trista was shaking. She felt ravaged and hopelessly confused as she groped her way to the dresser and finally managed to light the lamp. Pulling herself together, she whirled about to face him, her hands on her hips.

  "How I kiss my fiancé is none of your concern," she said haughtily, her false bravado concealing the conflicting emotions that were raging within her.

  Pushed to the edge of violence, Lance grabbed her by her upper arms and gave her a rough shake. "You are my wife, Trista. You belong to me, and me alone. No other man shall ever have you!"

  Tears filled her eyes at his treatment of her, yet she knew a driving desire to hurt him as he was hurting her. "How do you know Michael hasn't already?" she challenged.

  Lance went still for a moment, then sneered, "Believe me, Trista, if he had had you already, he wouldn't have been satisfied with that little intimate scene I just witnessed at the door. I'm the only man who's touched you so far." He was arrogantly self-assured. "And I'm the only man who ever will."

  "Why you . . . "

  Lance shook her again, his hands biting into the soft flesh of her upper arms. "We are married."

  "No! I am no man's wife until I marry by white man's law!"

  He snorted in derision. "You are my wife, Trista."

  "Never! I hate you! I despise you! I loathe you! I'm engaged to Michael!" She pounded on his chest to punctuate her avowals, refusing to accept his words, denying any connection between them.

  Her words sent his temper spiraling out of control. Viciously, he crushed her to his chest, needing desperately to drive all the hatred she felt for him from her. His mouth covered hers fiercely at first, but he lessened the pressure when she whimpered with pain. His lips turned from punishing to teasing, and the thrust of his tongue became seductive rather than vanquishing.

  Trista's whimper turned to a low moan of denial. She didn't want to feel this way with Lance. Why was he the only one who could arouse her so? Why couldn't Michael's touch bring her such ecstasy?

  Trista held herself rigid, wanting to refuse the passion that threatened to leave her weak and pliant in Lance's arms. But all of her opposition to him melted away when he unbuttoned the bodice of her high-necked gown and slipped a questing hand within to fondle the soft swell of her breast. The tender orb tautened, responding fully to his knowing touch.

  Her body betraying her so, Trista could no longer deny it or fight it. It was useless to resist. She wanted this man as she'd never wanted another. It made no sense; she could find no logic or understanding in it. All Trista knew was that she desired Lance with every fiber of her being.

  Any thoughts of keeping herself from him were swept away in a tide of frenzied abandon. Hungrily, she returned his kiss. Lance sensed the change in her, and he loosened the restraining hold he had upon her. Trista looped her arms about his neck, pressing herself more completely against his hard, manly frame.

  Lance's response as she yielded to him was immediate. He picked her up in his arms and strode purposely to the bed. Gently laying her upon the softness, he quickly stripped her of the confining white woman's garments. Trista did not protest his actions; rather she exulted in them. Her every sense was attuned to Lance, and Lance alone. She wanted him . . . she wanted him . . . she wanted him. . . .

  Her arms lifted to accept him after he'd shed his own breeches and returned to her. He came down upon her, the heat of his big body searing hers, branding her forever. His hands trailed fire over her quivering alabaster flesh, molding her to his length. He moved sensually against her nest of womanly pleasure, tempting, offering, yet not claiming.

  Lance was compelled to please her, to renew the passion that existed between them. Yet as he strove to increase her need, he found himself lost in a maelstrom of emotion that eclipsed anything he'd ever experienced in his life. He knew what existed between them was perfection. He wanted to touch her and give her the purest ecstasy. He wanted to create within her a need for him that could only be matched by his own need for her, and one that she could never deny again.

  His caresses became demanding as he sensually forced her to
that higher plane of feeling. Trista did not resist his lead, but became his apt student in the art of love. Avidly, she matched him kiss for kiss, touch for touch. With eager intent she explored the taut, powerful ridges of his chest and shoulders. Her hands skimmed over him provocatively, teasing him to even greater heights.

  At the brink of rapture, Lance positioned himself and then moved with piercing sweetness into the heart of her womanly sheath. They shuddered as thrilling emotions surged through them. Lance began to move, and Trista could not remain still beneath his driving hips. Delirious in her need to be close to him, she clutched at his shoulders, holding on to him with all her might. When Lance reached down to cup her buttocks and pressed more deeply within her hot velvet depths, excitement shot through her. Trista's ecstasy peaked in an inferno of blazing splendor. Never before had she been so transported. She went rigid in his arms as the pulsing, pounding rapture played out its course.

  Lance knew he'd pleased her, and that realization pushed him beyond control. As she attained total bliss, he followed. They soared to the heavens, desire's delight binding them together. They were one.

  Exhausted, they plummeted from the heights. Lance drew Trista above him, and she lay spent against his chest. It was then, in the dim glow of the lamplight, that he saw the marks upon her back. He went rigid in fury as he wondered who would have dared to beat her that way.

  "Trista." He spoke sharply. "Who beat you?"

  His question destroyed the mellowness of the moment, and she was suddenly angry that he hadn't guessed. "You need to ask?" she retorted bitterly, trying to pull free of his grip, but Lance refused to let her go.

  His hands tightened on her arms, and his eyes glowed with an inner light. "Tell me, woman! Did Michael do this to you?!" Lance was ready to kill his brother at the thought.

  Trista gave a harsh, derisive laugh. "Michael? Michael would never touch me in anger."

  "Then who?"

  "It was your fiancée, Lance. Your darling Night Lark. She told me how you'd left her in charge of me and how she was to teach me to be a chore wife for when you married. When I didn't learn the Comanche ways quick enough to suit her, she thought it most entertaining to discipline me!"

  "Night Lark?" Lance could not believe what Trista had just told him. He had never told Night Lark to take care of Trista.

  "Yes, Night Lark!"

  Lance realized then that the other woman must have taken the opportunity to take out her jealousy on Trista. It hurt him that she had suffered while he was gone, and he understood far more clearly her reason for running away from the village. Wanting to make it up to her, wanting to try to erase the misery of that time, he eased his hold on her and pulled her near.

  Trista resisted for a moment, but when his lips claimed hers again, she surrendered to the undeniable magic of his touch. Much later they lay wrapped in each other's arms, neither speaking nor thinking for fear of ruining the beauty of what had just occurred. Sensual peace flowed through Trista, carrying her to blissful contentment. She slept, unaware of Lance studying her in the darkness, pondering the hold she had on his heart.

  Disturbed, Lance left the bed and strode to the window, raking a hand nervously through the thickness of his hair. Brushing aside the curtains, he stood quietly, staring out across the land that he loved. The wafting night breeze cooled his love-heated body, and as his senses calmed, rationality returned. He would not love Trista. She was but a pawn in his game to best Michael. He would not allow her to mean anything to him. Yet even as he vowed to himself that he would not let her into his heart, he feared that it might be too late.

  Lance turned from the window then. He considered spending the night there in her room. He was, after all, her husband and entitled to her bed, but he decided against it. He had proven a point to her tonight, and it was one she would not soon forget. Quickly pulling on his pants, he paused only long enough to stare down at her for a moment and then silently left the room.

  When Trista awoke late the following morning, she was filled with an extraordinary sense of well-being. Unconcerned with the time, she stretched in luxurious leisure. Only as she felt a slight soreness in her limbs did the remembrance of Lance's possession return.

  Trista sat bolt upright in bed, her expression one of horror-filled outrage. How dare he!?! She suddenly realized her state of undress and quickly clutched the covers over her breasts. Memory after exciting memory tumbled through her thoughts, leaving her trembling and uncertain and finally furious.

  While Trista was angry with Lance, she was far more angry with herself. For all her protestations of loving Michael and planning to marry him, she had been unable to resist Lance's touch. She had given to him exactly what he'd demanded. How could she ever face Michael again knowing that she had responded so fully to Lance?

  Guilt filled her, and she dreaded the thought of seeing either man that day. The knock on her bedroom door startled her, and she grabbed desperately for her wrapper at the foot of the bed.

  "Yes? Who is it?" she called out nervously.

  "It's Rosalie, Trista. The señora sent me to see if you were all right."

  Her heartbeat quickened as she wondered ashamedly if everyone knew about the night before. "Of course I'm all right," she answered quickly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

  "Well, it is almost noon. . . ." Rosalie told her.

  "Noon?!" Trista was truly shocked by the news. "I'm sorry. I had no idea. I guess I was more exhausted than I thought. Tell Eleanor that I'll get dressed and be down soon."

  "I will tell her," the servant replied as she moved off down the hall.

  Trista put a trembling hand to her lips as she took a deep, steadying breath. She knew that she had to act as normal as possible, but she wondered if she would be able to if she came face-to-face with Lance. Lost in her riotous thoughts, she dressed, and then, girding herself for the worst, she started downstairs.

  Eleanor was in the dining room just starting her lunch when she caught sight of Trista on the stairs. "Trista . . . join me for lunch," she called out in invitation.

  Gritting her teeth, but knowing that there was no way to avoid it, she ventured in to join her. At any moment Trista was expecting to run into Michael or, worse yet, Lance, and her manner was anything but relaxed as she sat down at the table across from Eleanor.

  "You look a little pale this morning," Eleanor noted. "You aren't sick, are you?" There was an edge of tension to her voice that Trista had never heard before, and she suddenly realized what the other woman was implying.

  "No . . . no, it's nothing like that, Eleanor," she protested quickly. "I'm just not used to sleeping so long, that's all."

  "Oh, well. I'm glad that's all there is to it," she answered. Still, she was a bit skeptical of Trista's manner. She seemed a bit nervous or rather tense this morning. "Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?"

  "Coffee would be good," Trista answered distractedly as she glanced toward the hall.

  Rosalie had been serving Eleanor, and when she finished she hurried to bring Trista the hot, reviving drink. Trista took a deep gulp. It strengthened her somehow, and she finally got up enough nerve to ask in a casual tone, "Is Michael in the house?"

  "No, dear, I'm sorry, he isn't. I suppose he didn't want to waken you to tell you, but they all rode into San Antonio earlier this morning."

  "They?" she questioned, hoping and praying that Lance had gone with them.

  "Michael, George, and Lance," she supplied, and was surprised at the relief that showed for a moment on Trista's pale features.

  "Oh . . . " Trista could have shouted for joy. "Will they be back soon?"

  "I suppose in about three days or so. That should give you plenty of time to relax and catch up on your rest."

  "Yes," she replied almost happily, "it certainly will."

  All eyes turned to watch George and Michael Barrett as they rode into town. It was not their presence that created such a stir, but the presence of the stranger with them who was riding the mos
t magnificent stallion they'd ever seen. As they reined in in front of the Plaza House Hotel, E.R. Smith, the short, rotund proprietor, hurried outside to welcome them.

  "George, it's good to see you and Michael." He smiled widely, always pleased that the Barretts frequented his establishment. "Same rooms as usual?"

  "Yes, but we'll be needing one more, E.R. I've brought my older son, Lance, along this time," he told him proudly.

  "I didn't know you had an older boy. . . ." E.R. frowned. As he swung about to meet the man George was talking about, his mouth fell open in shocked dismay. The man Barrett was introducing as his son was a breed!

  "E.R., this is Lance. Lance, this is E.R. Smith, owner of the best hotel in San Antonio."

  E.R. was nervous and more than a little upset. Neither Indians nor breeds were accepted in town. He had always refused them service of any kind before, but now . . .

  George read his misgivings and responded tersely, "Lance is my son, E.R. If you find you don't have room for him, we'll just have to go elsewhere from now on."

  The threat of a loss in business straightened out his thinking in a hurry. "No, no," he protested quickly, not about to lose the Barretts as customers, "you know Barretts are always welcome here."

  "It's good to know that," he told him, giving Lance a barely discernible nod of confidence. On the trip to town, they had discussed Lance's worry that he would not be easily accepted into the white society. George had reassured him at the time that the Barrett name would give him entrance anywhere in San Antonio. He was pleased that he had been proven right.

  E.R. bobbed an introductory nod in Lance's direction and then stared admiringly at Fuego. "Your mount is the best piece of horseflesh I've ever seen."

  "Thanks." Lance's reply was curt. He felt little respect for a man who based his judgment of people on money.

  E.R. took a step toward the golden rogue, but when Fuego snorted nervously, the little man moved away. "Still kinda wild, is he?"

  "He's tame now, E.R. You should have seen him when Lance first started working with him."