Something cold touched her left ankle. In some distant part of her mind, she realized that someone was cutting the wool braid that bound her feet. She kept her eyes closed, her cheek pressed against the horse’s sweaty neck, her arms hanging. A moment later her right ankle was freed as well.
And then came a new kind of pain. Not fire, but thousands of needles pricking her legs, the agony shooting to her hips. She gasped and bolted upright. When she did, she pitched sideways. The world turned upside down. Arms caught her. The sky spun above her. Someone yelled.
Torture. She was being carried, but the arms that cradled her were made of white-hot fire, singeing her wherever they touched. She didn’t think there could be any pain more excruciating. Then cruel hands lowered her to a soft mat of grass, but the blades of the grass turned to sharp spikes, piercing her flesh.
Loretta closed her eyes and gave herself up to the pain. Someone held her and rocked her—someone strong with a deep voice that whispered like silk through her mind. The words were sometimes strange, but the few she understood made the meaning of the others absolutely clear. She was safe where she was, sure enough safe—forever.
Ice. Loretta sucked in a whine of air as the shock of water washed over her body.
A warm arm encircled her waist. A large hand clamped over her ribs. She twisted her neck to see, then froze. The Comanche.
Instinctively she thrashed and squirmed in his arms. She tried to throw herself away from him. But it was all to no avail. Hunter held her fast with one arm hooked through her elbows behind her and walked deeper into the water until it hit her chin high. A convulsive shudder ran the length of her. Cold. Oh, mercy, it was so horribly cold.
He ran a hand down her belly. The touch was slow, effortless, leaving her in no doubt that he could explore any part of her he chose, at his leisure. ‘‘Ah, mah-tao-yo, you are so hot. Even where you are not burned. Toquet,’’ he whispered. ‘‘You will not fight.’’
Something about his voice seemed familiar, oddly comforting. Her father, she realized, somehow his voice put her in mind of her father. She fought back tears. Shivers racked her. So cold. The freezing ache of it blocked out everything else. Her teeth began chattering nonstop. When she could bear it no longer, she made one last attempt to get free.
‘‘It will pass,’’ he promised. ‘‘You will be still. It is a burn, no? From the sun. You have fire inside you. The cold will chase it away. You understand?’’
She tried to nod. When she did, she took a mouthful of water and choked. He exclaimed under his breath and turned her so her chin rested on his shoulder. The shock of his body heat against her breasts and belly made her gasp. In the moonlight, the cut in his flesh from Rachel’s bullet was a black line.
‘‘Toquet, mah-tao-yo, toquet.’’ His arms tightened around her, hard, powerful, yet strangely gentle. ‘‘Close your eyes, eh? Trust this Comanche. We will make war tomorrow.’’
Time ceased to exist. There was nothing but the night, the water, and the Indian. Loretta floated into a dream world. She was sick, so awfully sick. Too sick to care what happened. Too sick to fight it.
Chapter 6
HUNTER SPREAD HIS HAND UNDER THE cloth of the woman’s gown and stared at the clear outline of his fingers. As incredible as it seemed, the sun had gone right through the thin material and cooked her fair skin. Comanches sometimes got sunburned, but never like this. With a snort of disgust, he wadded the gown into a ball and tossed the useless thing on the fire. From now on he would dress the girl in leathers.
The material ignited explosively, and the light from the heightened flames played upon her body, flickering on her small breasts, shadowing her curves. He stared down at her, more angry than he had ever been, with himself. No matter how he tried not to think of it, his mind circled back to his behavior tonight, immediately after stopping to make camp, then later down at the river. How could he have treated a White-Eyes so kindly?
Rocking her in his arms had been unforgivable enough, but then he had caught himself calling her mah-tao-yo, little one, a name he had once used to address his wife, Willow by the Stream. It was the ultimate betrayal, not just of Willow by the Stream, but himself. Try as he might to justify it, there were no excuses.
He couldn’t imagine what had come over him. What bothered him most was that it was impossible to forget, even in the dark, that this woman was his enemy. Unlike some of her kind, she didn’t bear any resemblance to one of the People. Her hair was honey gold, as blinding as sunshine when the moonlight hit it right, and her skin shone as white as sun-washed silver. Every time he looked upon her, shock coursed through him. The woman of the prophecy? His woman? He yearned for a plump, comfortable female with beautiful brown skin and long curtains of black, shiny hair. Instead he got skin the color of buffalo fat, stretched taut over spindly bones, and hair the same yellow brown as parched grass.
The girl’s screams during her delirium had convinced him that she was indeed the woman of the prophecy. Just as the Great Ones had foretold, her voice wasn’t gone, only silenced by great sadness . . . the massacre of her parents. Long ago, Hunter had known another girl whose voice had been stolen from her in such a way. After examining that girl at length, the puhakut in the village had claimed that her heart had been laid upon the ground by seeing her family killed and that one day, when joy returned to her, she would speak again. Many winters later the mute girl had married a kindly man, and after the birth of her first child, which brought her great gladness, she regained her voice, just as the puhakut had predicted. This white girl would as well. How or when, Hunter couldn’t begin to imagine, but he knew it would come to pass. Beyond that, he refused to think. According to the song of the Great Ones, he was to be instrumental in her recovery.
With a shaky sigh, he reached for the grease pouch and loosened its drawstring. Like it or not, he had to take care of her. If she died, the Great Ones would be displeased. If he had had only himself to worry about, he might have walked off and left her. After all, what could the Great Ones do to him that would be worse than this? But he must think of his people, of how his actions might affect them.
The hot flare of anger within him condensed into a hard little knot in the pit of his stomach. He dipped his hand into the grease and leaned forward to smear it on the woman’s tortured skin. His hand hovered above her leg. He couldn’t help but remember how jealously she had guarded her ruffled breeches that first day or how painfully ashamed she had been this morning when the hem of her pitsikwina had ridden up on her thighs. If she had any idea that she was lying here naked, he felt sure her face would turn redder than the sunburn had already made it. And if she knew he was about to run his hands over her? He could only guess what her reaction might be. Terror, probably. Accompanied by a good deal of spitting if her past transgressions were an indication. Stupid girl. Grown men had dared less and died for their trouble. Perhaps his brother was right, and she didn’t know who he was. Hunter was well aware of the fear he inspired in the tosi tivo. Most whites recognized him the moment they saw the scar on his cheek and looked into his indigo eyes.
A suppressed smile made the corners of his mouth twitch. Perhaps he would be wise not to tell her who he was. As much as he disliked her spitting, the thought of her being obedient and too easily cowed appealed even less. Something about her—he had no idea what—evoked confusing emotions within him. Anger blanketed those emotions, prevented him from having to deal with them. Ah, yes, he liked her much better when she was spitting. Much better. Sick and helpless as she was now, he found himself feeling sorry for her.
He glided his greased hand up her thigh to her hip, acutely aware of how hot her skin was and how fragile her jutting hipbone felt against the leathery surface of his palm. She tossed her head and moaned, her sooty lashes fluttering on her flushed cheeks. He studied her face for a moment, then lowered his gaze to her breasts. The tips were the delicate pink of cacti blossoms. In all his life, he had never seen such nipples. The anger in his gut tight
ened into a knot, fiery and churning. Skidding his hand along the ladder of her ribs, he cupped the underside of her breast, then feathered his fingertips over its crest and watched the pebbled surface go taut and eager, thrusting upward for more. She moaned again and tossed her head, her forehead wrinkling in a bewildered frown. Clearly he was the first ever to touch her there. His smile, no longer suppressed, lifted one side of his mouth into a mocking grin. She was not so haughty when asleep, he thought. Her body, the body he had paid so many horses for, betrayed her and responded to him. It gave him a perverse satisfaction.
His smile quickly disappeared when he realized with something of a shock that hers was not the only traitorous body.
Dawn came in wisps of pink against a blue-gray sky. Through the trees, shafts of misty sunlight formed luminous motes of warmth along the river. Birds sang. Squirrels chattered. The low rush of the water was ceaseless. Loretta woke slowly, aware before she opened her eyes that something was horribly wrong. Amy wasn’t this big. The arm around her was hard and heavy, the warm hand that cupped her breast distinctly masculine. She frowned and wondered where the hairy blanket touching her cheek had come from. Where was the gray down quilt? Why did she hurt everywhere? Through the spikes of her eyelashes, she stared at a gnarled tree root. A breeze stirred the leaves overhead. The moldy floor of the forest blended its musty smell with the rich, tantalizing aroma of coffee. Then the sound of men’s voices drifted to her, the tones conversational, interspersed with an occasional chuckle. Friendly voices. Normal-sounding voices— except for one thing. She couldn’t understand the language.
With a start, she remembered. Her sudden gasp of alarm woke the Comanche who held her in his arms. She knew without looking that it was Hunter, the most horrible. His hand tightened reflexively on her naked breast, and his arm hardened to steel around her. He grunted something and nuzzled her neck.
Loretta’s first instinct was to grab his hand, but she no sooner tried than she realized that her own were bound behind her. He pressed his face against her hair and took a deep breath. She could tell he was only half-awake by the slow, lazy way he moved. His thumb grazed her nipple, teasing the sensitive tip into an unwilling response. Her body sprang taut as well, jerking with every flick of his fingers. He yawned and pressed closer.
Oh, God, help me.
Lowering his hand to her belly, he pressed his palm against her spasm-stricken muscles and kneaded away the tightness. She felt like a sensitive harp string, thrummed by expert fingers. Horrified by her body’s reaction, she tried to twist free, but he threw a damp, buckskin-clad leg over both of hers and pinned her to the fur. Her back stung each time she moved, the pain so sharp it made beads of sweat pop out on her brow. Her thighs felt as if they were on fire.
‘‘M-mm-m, you are still hot,’’ he mumbled. His hand lingered on her belly. ‘‘Not too bad where the sun did not touch, though. The fever is better.’’
No man had ever dared touch her like this. She tossed her head from side to side, strained to get her arms and legs free, then shuddered in defeat.
‘‘Do not fight.’’ His voice was so close, it seemed to come from within her own mind. ‘‘You cannot win, eh? Rest.’’ His sleepy whispers invaded her whole being, slow, hypnotic, persuasive. He rubbed her in a circular motion, pausing in sleep, then coming awake to rub some more. ‘‘Lie still. Trust this Comanche. It is for the burn, no? To heal your skin.’’
As he slid his palm slowly downward, she realized she was slick with some kind of oil. Her heart drummed a sensual alto, off-key to the soprano shrills of fear emitted by her nerve endings. No, please, no.
He molded his hand to the slight mound between her thighs, searching out its external softness, his fingertips undulating in a subtle manipulation that shot bolts of sensation to the core of her. Nuzzling her hair again, he sighed, his warm breath raising goose bumps on her neck.
‘‘Ah, Blue Eyes, your mother did not lie. You are sweet.’’
He gave the conjuncture of her thighs a farewell caress, then traced the curve of her hip with a hand that skimmed the painfully burned flesh there so lightly that she scarcely felt it. The pressure of his palm increased when it gained purchase on her ribs where the sun had not reached. His hand tightened its grip, squeezed, and released so rhythmically that it seemed to keep time with the strange, blood-pounding beat inside her. It was as if he had begun the rhythm within her, as if he somehow knew the thrusts, the lulls, better than she.
Held captive now by more than bonds and strength of arm, she turned her face to study his, fascinated by the sleepy innocence that clouded his half-closed eyes. The merciless killer was gone, replaced by a drowsy, mischievous boy who stroked her as if she were a newly acquired pet. A slow smile curved his mouth, a dreamy smile that told her he was more asleep than awake. He moved closer to whisper something unintelligible against her cheek. Her lips tingled, then parted. She found herself wondering how it might have felt if he had kissed her, then cringed at the wayward thought. Comanches didn’t kiss, they just took. And her time was running out.
With the tip of his tongue, he outlined her ear. ‘‘Topsannah, tani-har-ro.’’ The words came out so slurred, she doubted he even knew he was saying them. ‘‘Prairie flower,’’ he muttered, ‘‘in springtime.’’
He fell silent. His arm around her waist went lifeless and heavy. His breathing changed, becoming measured and deep. The mahogany fringe of his eyelashes rested on his cheeks. Loretta stared, incredulity sweeping over her in waves. He was fast asleep. And she was pinned beneath his arm and leg. She wrinkled her nose. The fur of the buffalo robe tickled, and it smelled sharply of smoke and bear grease. Probably full of lice and fleas, too, she thought with disgust, then promptly began to itch, which was sheer torture because she couldn’t scratch.
His hand rested on her ribs like an anchor. Though escape was impossible, bound as she was, being so close to him made her feel claustrophobic. Slowly, ever so slowly, she tried to ease out from under him, only to have him go tense again and pull her back into the crook of his body. ‘‘Sleep,’’ he murmured. ‘‘We will make war tomorrow, no?’’
Loretta strained her neck to see over the fur. Some distance away, the other Indians stood in groups around small fires, some yawning, some wide awake with tin cups in their hands. One man was staring in her direction. She quickly ducked her head under the robe, but not fast enough. Moments later she heard the faint whisper of moccasins approaching. Leather swished. She sensed the presence of someone beside her and slitted her eyelids. Through her lashes, she saw obsidian eyes looking down at her from a dark face framed by blue-black hair. She recognized this Indian. He was the one who had spoken in her behalf that first day, the one who had not wanted her killed. It didn’t make her fear him less.
To her horror, the man lifted the edge of the robe to look at her shoulder. Frantic, she jerked at the leather that held her hands behind her. This was her worst nightmare. Comanches. Not one, but two. And she couldn’t even fight them. If he yanked the robe off her, there would be nothing she could do but lie there in shame.
Hunter stirred and yawned, then rose up on one elbow to bark in Comanche, ‘‘What is it, tah-mah? Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?’’
‘‘I just came to check the woman.’’
Hunter squinted at the sun and sighed. ‘‘So, how does she look?’’ He sat up and drew the robe farther down her shoulder, taking care not to uncover her breast, laughing softly at the horrified expression on her face. Of all the men, his brother, Warrior, would be least likely to harm her. He was a fierce fighter but otherwise gentle, more apt to defend her than attack her. ‘‘It seems better to me. The grease, maybe. Not such a deep red. Old Man was right about the cold water chasing away the fever, too. She’s hot, but nothing like she was.’’
Warrior pressed a palm to her skin. ‘‘Old Man says if you don’t keep her cool, the fever will come upon her again.’’
‘‘Not another bath?’’ Hunter propped
an elbow on his upraised knee and rubbed his forehead. All trace of laughter fled. He didn’t relish the thought of the battle he’d have with her. ‘‘Don’t wake me with news like that. Bring me coffee first.’’
‘‘Not another bath, but no traveling in the heat. We’ll have to stay here a few days.’’
‘‘You’re willing to risk that? What about the tosi tivo?’’
Breaking open a mullein leaf, Warrior laved his fingertips with healing juice and applied it to the frightened girl’s cheeks. She shrank back—only to run into Hunter, which made her flinch. ‘‘We’re probably safer here, right under their noses, than we would be miles away. When we circled back, we covered our trail well. You have to remember how stupid the tosi tivo are. They will follow the trails the others laid and never even think to look for us here, so close.’’
‘‘Yes, but—’’
‘‘She’s your woman. If the situation were reversed, you would risk it.’’
Hunter grew impatient with his struggling captive and caught a handful of her braid to hold her still. ‘‘There, I’ve got her. The nose is worst. On the end where it curves up. Her forehead, too, tah-mah.’’
Warrior dabbed juice and smiled. ‘‘She doesn’t like me. Come to think of it, she doesn’t seem any too fond of you.’’
Leaning farther forward, Hunter took another look at her face. Her eyes were as big as a startled doe’s. Twinkling laughter lit up his own. ‘‘She doesn’t look as if she wants to spit today, eh? Give me a week, and she’ll be broken to ride.’’
Comanche Moon Page 8
